The Defiant Ones
by wcgreen
Summary: Keep in mind that this is a package deal," Cragen told them. "If either of you can't cut it, you're both gone. Don't bother complaining—I won't listen." Follows the story "Corrosive" in this series
1. A Pox on Both Your Houses

_A/N: This incorporates scenes from __Corrosive__, chapters "Hurricane: Part Six" and "Amid the Wreckage". In this AU, all the windows to the interview rooms have one-way glass. Also, the discipline procedures in this chapter are based only very loosely on actual NYPD procedures. "MOS" means "Member of the Service," an officer of the NYCPD._

Interview Room One  
Manhattan SVU  
11 July

_This place really is a fishbowl... never seems that way when I'm in here questioning someone... then my mind is on that person and their answers to my questions... I'm the cop, not the perp...._

Too keyed up to sit quietly, John Munch was taking laps around the table. As he passed the window facing the squadroom, he paused to peer at the room reflecting back at him in the one-way glass.

_This didn't go the way I planned...._

What should have been Otten's coup de grace, the death blow to her efforts to force him into retirement, had ended with Howie gasping for air and Couch clutching his nose just as Captain Cragen arrived at the squadroom.

_I still could have brought it off... all I had to do was come up with a good explanation...._

Cragen had ignored both him and Otten to check on the two injured detectives.

_Something like 'It's only a simple misunderstanding'... 'A little rough-housing that got out of hand'... "Sorry, Don—I was helping Howie with some spilled coffee'...._

When the captain handed Couch his own handkerchief to stem the nasal bleeding. Otten tried to speak; Cragen cut her off with a cold glare.

_Then she started to shiver, which made her look even more guilty... for myself, I stood there calmly, looking completely harmless... I blended in with the crowd... damn hard to do with everyone staring at me...._

After he was sure no one needed medical attention, Cragen had asked again what had happened.

_I glanced at Otten to see if she was going to try an excuse... stupid, stupid thing to do... I should have ignored her and jumped in before Sue said..._

"They were going for their weapons."

At Lynde's words, a collective hiss of breath had sucked into every throat around Munch.

_No, we weren't... at least, I wasn't... maybe Otten was... wouldn't put it past her...._

Otten's head had snapped around to face Sue, who was standing red-faced and furious at the center of everyone's attention. Cragen held up a hand, palm toward her, to silence her protest.

"You'll get your turn later, Otten. Lynde, are you certain?"

"That's where their hands were going," Sue said, her voice firm, her head held high. "Right to their shoulder holsters. They were arguing then they both jumped to their feet and went for their weapons. That's why I yelled for someone to stop them."

_That's not true... I just wanted to smash Otten's face for calling me a rat, for saying I'd help children be dragged off and slaughtered...._

John jerked away from the window and stomped away, too angry to pay attention to clearance room. His foot struck the table leg, sending a bolt of agony through his ankle and up his shin. John skipped a step and stumbled against the table.

"Damn it! Damn it to hell!"

Officer Maddox, a pear-shaped officer two months away from his thirty years and retirement, made no move to help from his position by the door. John shot him an evil glare before resuming his circuit around the room.

_Fine—let me hobble around on a broken foot... useless fool...._

He completed the lap, breezing past Maddox to show how unnecessary the officer's unoffered help was.

_No one in their right mind would set Jerry Maddox to guard anyone dangerous... now Smoot, she's a real Amazon—crack shot, Taser-certified... Cragen has her watching Otten in Interview Two... he must know she's the instigator, not me... if he had let me explain instead of putting me under Maddox's not-so watchful eye, this would all be over... I'd be back at my desk... Otten would be on her way out the door...._

At Cragen's command, Maddox had stepped forward and placed his hand near John's right elbow. He then had tipped his head in the direction of the interview room.

_He acted like I was contagious...._

Munch had spun on his heel and headed for the front of the squadroom. Behind him, he heard Cragen asking if anyone else had witnessed the attacks.

_Attacks? Hitting Howie was an accident... an accident...._

Whatever answer Cragen had received was cut off by the door closing behind Munch.

_I didn't mean to hit Howie—it's not my fault he got in the way...._

John stopped before the window to Cragen's office.

_Looks like my luck ran out the moment Howie grabbed me... another two seconds and Otten would have swung like a girl and missed... giving me cause to deck her the way I decked Cutler... I'm sure the rats haven't forgotten how I helped pull their chestnuts out of the fire—maybe that will count for something...._

His reflection sneered at the thought.

_Yeah, right—when was the last time IAB did anyone here a favor?_

He shrugged just to see his reflection act nonchalant about his situation.

_At least they can't yank my benefits and pension... I knew when I moved here that I'd hit retirement age before I made my twenty, but no one can touch what I get from Baltimore... Otten, however, could lose everything—pension, health benefits, reputation...._

His reflection broke into a wide grin.

_Serves her right for starting this... I'll hit bottom, but she'll hit rock bottom... I can live with that... but that's worst case... I can still pull this off... Don and I go back a long way... we've been through a lot together.... he'll listen to me...._

Office of Captain D. Cragen  
Manhattan Special Victims Unit  
11 July

_I can think of better ways to start a day... eating live caterpillars with milk, attending a CompStat meeting in my shorts, finding out coffee has been banned from the squadroom... my two oldest detectives assaulting fellow officers was not on that list... must be my penance for having a great day yesterday...._

It had taken all the self-control Cragen had not to commit some assault of his own.

_I don't long for the good old days too often, but knocking a couple of heads together right then would have felt pretty_ damn good....

Instead he focused solely on Brewster and Sofarelli as victims, and Lynde and the other detectives as potential witnesses, letting his anger serve as blinders against Munch's shock and Otten's horror at what they each had done.

_I'd expect this from Stabler, not them...._

Now in his office, Cragen pondered the dilemma that was Sue's volunteered testimony. If Munch and Otten truly intended to drawn their weapons in anger, then he had no choice but to hand them over to IAB.

_Can't have us shooting up squadrooms... what would the perps think?_

However, if the detectives' only intent was a good old-fashioned fistfight, then he could handle it in-house as command level discipline, keeping it away from One P.P. and those compiling the promotion list.

_But doing that is the same as calling Lynde a liar or a bad witness—not good for unit morale... I did give her a chance to back down, but she's sticking to her story and, unfortunately, no one else was paying attention...._

While he considered his options, Cragen called Brewster into his office to hear his version. The lead detective settled himself carefully into the side chair, using the edge of the desk to lower himself into the seat.

"You still okay?" Cragen asked.

"Well, " Brewster replied, "I'm peeing blood and I can't spell Mississippi. Other than that, I'm fine."

Cragen's hand shot to his phone at "peeing blood." The second symptom told him that Brewster didn't really need an ambulance.

_I don't need humor right now... I need a way out of this that doesn't reflect badly on me... if this goes before to the Suspended/Modified Review Committee, Tony Balzano, chairman of said committee, will eat me alive... bye-bye promotion...._

"Howie," he said, "I'm not finding anything funny here."

The lopsided grin on the redhead's face faded at the scold in his CO's voice.

"My apologies, sir. Other than being sore, I'm fine. I know how to take a punch and Munch is a lightweight."

"You know," Cragen told him, "Houdini was killed by a punch to the stomach."

Howie snorted a laugh at the thought.

"He'd still be around if Munch hit him."

Cragen let the anachronism slide.

"Tell me what happened."

Brewster's story was succinct and not very informative.

_Basically, Howie was busy with his e-mail, his back to Munch and Otten, when Sue shouted... Howie grabbed Munch... Munch punched him... I walked in... no indication as to what triggered the incident...._

"Detective Brewster," he asked, deliberately assuming a command bearing for the question, "do you wish to file formal charges against Detective Munch?"

Howie wasted no time considering the question.

"No, I don't think so."

"Your partner thinks you should."

"Sue mother-hens me. It's not one of her better qualities. Now, let me tell you what I would like...."

Brewster brushed his hand through his hair then leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk.

"I'd like something to be done about the two of them. Maybe counseling, maybe arbitration—hell, put Munch and Otten in a ring together and let them slug it out. Whatever you do, keep them and their shit away from this shift. We're all tired of it."

After Brewster left, Cragen called in Sofarelli. The younger detective's nosebleed had cleared up and he had taken the time to wash up. Other than some swelling around his nostrils, Sofarelli looked fine.

The captain asked him anyway.

"Sure, sir. Nothing to it. It's my fault if I let someone clock me like that. Mostly, it makes me feel better about having Judith at my back."

Cragen raised both his eyebrows at the odd remark.

"Getting your nose broken means your partner can protect you?"

"It wasn't broken, sir; she just smushed it a bit. What happened was, I grabbed Judith from behind in a bear hug and she reacted exactly the right way—she threw her head back into my face, distracting me with pain, then she went limp, which let her slip down through my arms and get away."

Couch raised his right hand, his fingers pulled into a fist.

"She was all set to hit me again, which is the correct next move—take me out while I'm busy concentrating on how much my nose hurts, when you came in."

Cragen considered Sofarelli's information.

"What made you grab your partner?"

"Detective Lynde. I was at the coffee pot with Amelia and Dan when she called out. It didn't take any time for me to get to Judith."

"What was Munch doing?"

"He was squared off in front of Judith, his hand raised as though blocking a strike from her."

"So they didn't look like they were about to shoot each other?"

"No, sir. Sue must be mistaken about that."

Cragen blew a slow breath through his lips.

_That's what I need to handle this in-house, far away from Balzano and any charges he might make against me... except that, with his partner involved, Couch isn't as impartial a witness as Sue is...._

"Do you know what set them off?" he asked.

Couch slumped back in his chair.

"No, sir—not this time, but they've been sniping at each other since we transferred in."

"Do you know why?"

The younger man dropped his head, breaking eye contact with his captain, and shook his head. Cragen leaned forward, a move that drew Sofarelli's attention back to him.

"Couch, if you want to command, then you have to start thinking like a commander. You have to consider the good of the unit."

_...and not what protects your partner....._

Sofarelli pursed his lips as he considered the matter.

"My best guess," he finally said, "is that we all assume Judith and John are the same—I mean, they both came out of Homicide, they both have thirty-plus years on the job, they both share the same ethnicity. Thing is—we're wrong. What makes the two of them tick couldn't be more different."

He stretched his right arm out and made another fist.

"Judith is religious, family-oriented, one of the most rooted people I know."

He raised his left hand and spread his fingers wide.

"John seems more agnostic with no deep family ties, and he's very wide-ranging in his interests."

Couch them moved both hands together until his fist was touching his fingers. He then applied enough force to bend his fingers back, showing how his fist could not mesh with the open hand.

"We keep treating them like puzzle pieces, but they aren't from the same puzzle. They won't ever fit together."

"I can see that—good visual, by the way. Now, tell me how deep their antagonism is toward each other?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"How much do they hate each other? How far would either of them go to ruin each other's career and reputation?"

Couch dropped his gaze to the desk top. Cragen counted the seconds until he finally answered.

"They both have the highest respect for each other as detectives; Judith said as much about John. It's just that they can't stand each other as people."

Cragen held his expression still to hide his relief.

_Then they're still professionals, even if they are acting like babies... good... I can use that to leverage what I need out of this mess...._

"I'm required to ask this question. Do you wish to file formal charges against Detective Otten?"

The younger man answered promptly.

"No, sir. If I file charges, Judith automatically gets suspended. Her case goes to the S/MRC and she'll be forced out. They won't bother with modified duty or special monitoring for a detective with over thirty years on the job. The cost justifications aren't there."

"Someone's been studying his exam questions."

"Yes, sir—every chance I get. I don't want to blow this exam—not after everything you did to get me on the list."

Sofarelli's gratitude brought a smile to Cragen's face, a smile that faded as soon as the young man left his office.

_Now comes the hard part... I have to structure my questions for Munch and Otten so I get the outcome I need... it's simple game theory—the Prisoner's Dilemma adapted to this situation...._

After few minutes of working on scrap paper, he came up with the following:

******_Both Munch and Otten _****_Stay Silent_** Lynde's version goes to theS/MRC and they both get fired

**_ Otten admits to intent to commit_**

**_assault against a fellow officer & _**_**Munch Stays Silent **_ Lynde's version goes to the S/MRC and they both get fired

**_ Munch admits to intent to commit_**

**_assault against a fellow officer & _**_**Otten Stays Silent **_ Lynde's version goes to the S/MRC and they both get fired

**_ Both Munch and Otten admit to intent to commit_**

**_assault against a fellow officer _**_****_ In-house discipline: neither gets fired

The plan hinged on whether John and Judith loved their jobs more than they hated each other.

_I know neither of them wants to leave before their mandatory retirement date... John for financial reasons—his pension from Baltimore isn't enough to live on in Manhattan... for Judith, it's the satisfaction she gets from being the oldest MOS in her family, a shining example to all the Ottens and Fogels... the threat of being forced back to Baltimore should be enough for John, and Judith should cave when faced with explaining to her family how she got fired...._

He rechecked his outcomes and decided they were good.

_The classic Prisoner's Dilemma rewards betrayal—whether both prisoners betray or only one does, the punishment for betrayal is lighter... I need them both to choose betrayal... if one of them prefers the review committee, which is their right, then this matter goes before Deputy Commissioner Balzano and my promotion is toast... I may not believe Sue's version, but I'm happy to use it to my advantage...._

He opened his computer's word processor and began to peck at the keyboard.

_Now, to draft that discipline action...._

As commanding officer, Cragen had the responsibility for ensuring that the general regulations were upheld by his people. Command level discipline granted him the authority to adjudicate Schedule A offenses such as dress code violations, losing police property....

_... except for badges... losing something that permits a criminal to pass as an police officer is an automatic charge from the Department Advocate's office...._

He also was responsible for violations of protocol and behavior both in the squadroom and out on the streets.

_For those, I can hand out formal warnings, take away vacation days, deduct monetary fines from paychecks... add that to my ability to rearrange work schedules, assign personnel to round-the-clock shifts, cancel days-off and I can make life hell for anyone who deserves it for as long as I want...._

Cragen reread what he had typed.

_They deserve more than losing a few vacation days... it's not just my promotion... I can't have Otten "forgetting" to watch Munch's back or if Munch "accidentally" losing track of Otten on the streets... whether they like each other or not, I have to know they will play well together...._

He shuffled through the papers in his in-box so he could crib some wording from a inter-departmental memo on cold cases....

_Might as well make someone happy with this... John and Judith won't be, but that's tough... it's this or go home permanently... I haven't spent all this time and effort just to watch them blow it for me...._

He read through the text of the discipline action plan, and corrected a spelling mistake then he printed a copy for each of their office files.

_This stays in-house... nothing in their permanent jackets unless they screw it up... I'm giving them a huge opportunity here... they better appreciate it...._

Cragen slid the documents under his blotter then he asked Ted Reyes the shift admin to have Smoot bring Otten to his office.

"After that," he told Reyes, "have Tech Services set a computer up in Interview One and make sure the phone in there is working. I need this done ASAP."

After Ted took off for Interview Two to deliver the message, Cragen opened the blinds on the window to the adjoining interview room. John's craggy face frowning at him from behind the one-way glass rocked him back on his heels.

_Wow--that is one pissed-off Munch... good... angry people don't think clearly...._

A knock on his office signaled Otten's arrival.

_It's show time... wish I'd changed into my uniform...more official and impressive... at least I'm in a new suit...._

"Come in."

The second he saw Otten, he was glad he had not taken a seat behind his desk.

_Head held high, spine straight—for someone who should be dead on her feet, Otten looks loaded for bear...._

He sent Smoot to wait outside his door.

_Sorry, Otten—I plan to do all the shooting...._

He scowled at his subordinate then lit into her.

"I don't care what was behind your actions today. What I care about is your fitness to perform your sworn duties as a New York City police officer and as a detective on this unit."

He folded his arms and scowled at her.

"What I saw in the bullpen this morning makes your fitness questionable at best."

He let the scorn-laded words eat at Otten in silence. She stood at attention, a wisp of hair that had escaped a hair clip blowing in the draft from the A/C vent. The deep shadows under her eyes and the compression of her lips were the only signs of her tension.

"Sir," she said, "if I may...."

"Forget it, Otten. There's no excuse for breaking your partner's nose just because he kept you from killing a fellow officer."

Her eyes went wide.

_Let her think I swallowed Sue's version hook, link, and sinker... hopelessness helps me, not her...._

"I want your shield and weapon on my desk."

Otten's hand shook as she reached into her inside jacket pocket for her shield case. She put it on his desk then she took her Glock from its holster. This she placed next to her shield with its muzzle pointed at her.

_Nice touch... no implicit threat against me... no eye contact, either—not while putting her hardware down and not now... I've got complete capitulation...._

Cragen walked to his chair and pulled it back before unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting down. Otten turned ninety degrees to face him. Her jaw had slacked enough for her to breath through pale lips, and her gaze remained downcast and unfocused.

_She's starting to tremble... better not push this too far... a trip to the emergency room will mess up my timing...._

Cragen rested his elbows on the desk and folded his arms before him.

"Now," he told her, "you've left me with three options."

He held up an index finger.

"One—you can resign. This probably will seem abrupt, maybe even unexpected, to your family and friends, but it is an option."

He turned around as though reaching onto his credenza for the appropriate forms.

"Uh... ."

She swallowed so hard he heard her throat constrict.

"What else is there, sir?"

_I knew you wouldn't take the easy out... too many people would wonder why...._

He turned back around and held up two fingers.

"Two—I can kick this upstairs. You'll go before the Review Committee for a decision on this matter. The Detectives' Endowment Association will provide you a rep. Any decisions made by the committee will be reported to the Commissioner, and the SVU Bureau Chief. You'll probably lose your shield and pension."

He strove for lightness as he stated that fact, knowing that his not caring would make it worse to her. The sick dread on Otten's face warmed him so much he had to suppress a smile.

_I knew that was the right way to word this... this is going just like I planned...._

Cragen raised another finger.

"Three—you can sign a discipline action stating that you intended to commit assault against a fellow officer and you accept the determination that I as your CO have made in this matter. If you choose this option, this matter will be treated a Schedule A violation. There will be no permanent notations in your jacket and you'll be returned to your shift when you complete the action plan."

The moment he said "Schedule A violation," Otten's gaze snapped to focus on him. Her trembling ceased as she gaped at him in total shock.

_Yeah, I know... it's like being asked to choose electrocution, firing squad, or a slap on the wrist... try not to take too long deciding...._

Otten's nod was more of a tremor running up her spine, but it was enough to signal acceptance. Cragen slid the topmost action plan from under his blotter then he placed it in front of Otten.

"This takes you out of the rotation and puts you on cold cases until you can play well with your fellow detectives and your partner's nose heals."

Otten flinched as she took the paper from his desk. She held it in two hands while she glanced over it.

_Don't read it too closely—especially the phrase "work the assignment in accordance with the orders of your commanding officer"... it's not the boilerplate it appears to be...._

She reached into her jacket and pulled out a pen. With it, she signed her name, printed it on the line below then filled in her shield number.

Cragen stifled a smile as she wrote.

_One down... one to go...._

While she was writing, he crossed to the office door and beckoned Officer Smoot inside. As soon she shut the door, he pointed at the detective.

"Please take Otten into the hall and wait there for my knock."

Smoot nodded and Otten rose from her chair. The two women squeezed past the folded cot that partially blocked the door to the dead-end hallway outside his office. Otten tried once more to catch his attention; Cragen pointedly refused to look at her.

_You'll have my attention soon enough...._

Cragen shut the door behind them then he took Otten's hardware and secured them in his desk drawer. He next crossed his office to flip the switch on the interview room speaker.

"Officer Maddox, would you bring Munch into my office?"

Manhattan SVU  
11 July

John was looking down at the street when the speaker crackled with Cragen's request.

_About damn time... I've been cooling my heels in here for over an hour...._

He strode past Officer Maddox and out of the interview room.

_No Couch... no Brewster—just everyone else staring at me... under other circumstances, it would be flattering...._

He opened the door to the captain's office and stepped inside.

_And there's our captain seated behind his desk, resplendent in a new gray suit... the way he's frowning at me, you'd think I'd taken a crap on his desk... nothing to worry about... he's probably still pissed at Otten... I may be going second, but he'll listen to me... Don's a stand-up guy and we've got history together... he trusts me...._

John halted before Cragen's desk and came as close to 'at attention' as his hip would let him.

_It's the only time I lean to the right..._

He aimed his gaze at his superior and waited for Cragen to ask for his side of the story. The captain stared at him for a few moments then his eyes went flat and cold.

"Your actions this morning," he said, "show that you are unfit to be a detective on this unit."

John jerked back as though slapped.

"What?"

Cragen leaned forward. John eased his weight back from his toes.

_He's got it wrong... Elliot gets yelled at, not me... I should check behind the desk for pods...._

"There is no excuse," Cragen continued, "for slugging my lead detective. Hand over your shield and weapon."

_My shield?_

John felt the starch leave his bones as he gaped at Cragen.

_But what about Otten? What about hearing me out? You can't take my shield—you can't...._

John met his gaze and checked his expression for any signs of softening. The flat stare and implacable sternness offered no hope for him.

_I don't see Otten's hardware anywhere... she hit her partner—that's got to count for more than me slugging Howie...._

"But... but don't I get a chance to tell—"

"No, you don't. Shield and weapon, now."

Said quietly but coldly, Cragen's words turned his stomach to slush. John reached into his jacket and pulled out his shield case. He set the leather case on Cragen's desk and reached for his weapon. Mentally cursing the way his fingers fumbled on the grip, he finally freed his Glock then he placed it by the shield case.

_Well, it looks like I'm getting suspended... I can handle that... just have to think of it as a vacation without pay...._

Cragen settled back in his chair and folded his arms on the desk before him.

"Now," he said, "you're left with three options. First, you can resign. Since you don't have enough years in here, you'll receive no pension or benefits."

Cragen spun his chair as though reaching onto his credenza for the appropriate forms. It felt to John like the room spun with him.

_Resign? You're kidding... you have to be kidding...._

"I hope the City of Baltimore," Cragen continued, "gave you enough to retire on."

John swallowed a mouthful of bile.

_Retire? On half-fucking-pay? That pension won't cover my monthly bills—let alone food and necessities... or spiffy new suits like your_s....

He eased his weight on his left leg and fought to keep from shaking.

_Turn it down... turn it down... whatever else there is, it has to be better than this...._

"Could I hear the other choices, sir?" he asked, glad only that his voice did not quaver.

Cragen turned back around and stared at him. His upper lip twitched, but nothing in his eyes told John if it was from satisfaction or disgust.

"Second option," the captain said, "I can turn this over to the rat squad. I heard Friday that Lt. Cutler finished his suspension and has been reassigned to IAB's Manhattan unit."

The slush roiling John's stomach turned to ice.

_Cutler... Lieutenant Jonas Cutler... my decking him last month was a 'thing of beauty'... something I'm sure Cutler and his buddies haven't forgotten... If IAB uses that incident with this one, it forms a pattern of assault... if I were Cutler and wanted to screw me over, I'd certainly use it...._

He tried to picture himself walking into an interrogation room with Lt. Cutler and a few of his new rat buddies.

_No... not this option, either... I know too well what can happen in the dark corners and 'empty' rooms of a police station... I've done enough 'tuning-up' to ever want to be 'tuned'...._

He examined his captain's expression as Cragen waited for his response.

_How can you do this, Don? How can you sit there and so calmly threaten me with this? What the fuck is wrong with you?_

Not willing to trust his voice a second time, John shook his head as a reply.

_Tutuola... I probably won't ever tell you this, but you were right... we should have been watching out for Cragen...._

The captain's impassive expression matched the cold of his voice.

"Then the third option—I handle this as a discipline action. You sign a form stating that you intended to commit assault against a fellow officer and that you accept the determination made by your CO in this matter. If you choose this, this assault will be treated a Schedule A violation. There will be no permanent notations in your jacket and you'll be returned to your shift when you complete the action plan."

The moment the captain said "Schedule A violation," John reached for the cup of pens and pencils on his desk.

_I should play harder to get... not look like a drowning man grabbing a life-ring... but, between eating dogfood in a trailer park in Florida and letting Cutler work me over, Door Number Three looks pretty damn good...._

Cragen slid a sheet of paper from under his blotter, and placed it in front of John.

"This takes you out of the rotation and puts you on cold cases until you can play well with your fellow detectives, Howie included."

John flinched at the mental image of Brewster doubled over in front of him. He took the paper and glanced over it.

_Looks okay... it says exactly what Cragen says it does... do I really have a choice?_

He took a pen from the cup on the desk before him and filled in the two blanks then he signed his name. Cragen watched with no sign of emotion.

_Damn you, Don... and I hope you put Otten through this same hell...._

Cragen took the form from John, and examined the signature then put it back under his blotter. Without a word to John, he left his chair to give the hall door a sharp rap.

It opened and Otten entered the office.

_Shit... she's still here... Cragen must have manipulated her into taking Door Number Three, too...._

She stayed by the door, eying John with the same cold hate he was getting from his captain.

_You've got the years in, Otten—why didn't you resign? You got friends in high places—why didn't you take your chances with IAB?_

He stared back at her with matching intensity.

_Why the fuck are you here?_

From the now-closed hall door, Cragen broke into his thoughts.

"One P.P. requested a review by each detective unit of its open cases. You two will perform that review in Interview One. Since our cold cases are stored in there, it's the perfect place to put you."

Otten went pale. Munch balled his fists and planted them on Cragen's desk.

"Us? Working together?"

"Yes," Cragen told him. "Next time, try acting like New York's Finest and not like tantruming three-year-olds."

John drew in a deep breath.

_I'm starting with 'manipulative' and finishing with 'asshole'...._

"You—"

Cragen took a step toward him and the words dried on his tongue.

"Yes, 'me'. The commander of this squad, the one who will decide if you stay or go. If you want to stay, here are the ground rules."

Cragen reached under his blotter and drew out a single sheet of paper. Without looking at Otten, he handed it to her.

"This is a package deal. If either of you can't cut it, you're both gone. You two got yourselves into the mess; now, get yourselves out. Don't bother complaining—I won't listen."

He glared first at Otten then at John before pointing at the adjoining interview room.

"Dismissed."

Otten moved toward the door first. John quickly spun on his heel and got to the knob first. He yanked the door open and strode through it. Otten caught the door before it swung shut and left with similar speed.

As soon as they were gone, Cragen closed the blinds facing the squad room to get some privacy . His attention went to the two service weapons and the two detective shields in their cases, one with Munch's I.D., the other with Otten's.

_Couldn't they have waited until after the promotion list came out?_

Through the open blind to the interview room, he saw Munch and Otten facing off across the table. John's arms were flailing as he drove home his point. The sneer on Otten's face showed no willingness to grant anything to him.

_I see Ted got the computer installed—good... maybe they'll actually get something accomplished...._

Cragen took his chair and got back to the day's paperwork.


	2. Immiscible

A/N: This incorporates a scene from Corrosive: chapter "Hurricane: Part Seven".

I haven't found specifics regarding Munch's alimony payments. For the purposes of this story arc, he is paying thirty years' worth of alimony to Gwen (first wife); this will end the year in which this story is set. He learned something from his mistakes and negotiated shorter terms for Nancy and Maria (second and third wives). Nancy's alimony expired in 2000; Maria's ends this year along with Gwen's. Billie Lou got his share of the Waterfront (the bar Munch and other detectives owned in Baltimore) as her divorce settlement.

Although I'm following SVU and H:LOTS canon insofar as it's possible to reconcile the two, this is an alternate universe and some canon facts just do not fit.

Since the time frame for this story series is early season 8ish, Nicholas Sarkozy is not yet President of France. Ed Green was not shot in this AU.

**im·mis·ci·ble** \[i-mis-uh-buhl]\ _adj., _incapable of mixing or attaining homogeneity  
**a·por·i·a**: \[uh-pawr-ee-uh, uh-pohr-\ _noun, _expression of doubt (often feigned) by which a speaker appears uncertain as to what he should think, say, or do.  
Yes, that was a real art project. Citation: Chuck Shepard's News of the weird: .  
"The 5000 Fingers of Dr. T" is a movie (written by Dr. Seuss) about an evil piano teacher who wants to enslave boys so they can practice their piano lessons forever. .com/title/tt0045464/ for more info.

Manhattan SVU  
Interview Room One  
11 July

John listened as Otten's footsteps stopped and the door closed behind her. The thud of something hitting solid wood caught his attention. He turned to see her slumped against the door, arms limp at her sides, the sheet of ground rules held between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand

_Aw... is Detective Otten tired? Well, that's too damn bad...._

Ignoring the changes to the room—the laptop centered on the table, the office phone moved from its wall mount to the table, he glared at Otten and then lit into her.

"This is all your fault."

Otten slowly lifted her head. Her red-rimmed eyes blinked as they focused on him.

"What?"

John raised his voice.

"You gone deaf? I said it's your fault I'm in this shit! If you had—"

Her spine stiffened and her lips tightened into a sneer.

"Then you're incompetent."

The unexpected response cut off John's retort.

"How the fuck do you get that?" he shouted back at her.

"'It's all your fault'," she repeated, her mouth held crooked so the words resonated through her nose. "That's the same as saying I caused all this. If I caused it, then you did nothing—in other words, you're useless."

_The hell I am...._

John leaned toward her, his fists balled at this sides.

"I an not useless! I've done more here—"

She tossed the sheet of ground rules onto the table by the laptop and squared her stance as though expecting a tackle.

"The only thing you do here is tear me down. From the day I first got here, you've ripped into me. You questioned my morals, my training, my experience, my abilities."

She took another step closer, keeping the table between them.

"You ambushed me in the hall and you called me a whore."

The accusation brought a guffaw from John's throat.

_Well, you were supposedly screwing our captain...._

"That wasn't just me," he informed her, waving his left hand at the main window to indicate the rest of the team. "We held a meeting to decide who got to call you what. I lucked out and got 'whore'."

He laughed again, deliberately, just to see her face redden.

"We were protecting you, trying to keep people from suspecting you and Don."

"Bullshit," she shouted. "You weren't protecting anything. You called me a whore because that's the only sort of woman you know. All your stories about your failed marriages and your slutty wives—"

"Bullshit yourself," he shouted back.

_I gotta keep this away from my life... keep it on her and not me... and since my current theme seems to delight her...._

He stepped up to the table opposite her and glowered at her over his lenses.

"The way you were going at it with Cragen proves you know your back-alley commerce. While honest cops are working security gigs and waiting tables for extra cash, you're on your knees—"

"You wouldn't know an honest cop if one spit in your face.

Her mouth began to twist as though working up saliva. John snatched the grounds rules from the table and held them like a shield before him.

"Careful, Otten. Who knows which STDs you're carrying."

To his surprise, Otten didn't react to the taunt. Instead, her attention went to the sheet of paper in his hands. From the way her eyes shifted back and forth, he knew she was reading it.

_What the....?_

"Shit."

The word, said so quietly that John almost missed it, was followed by a swift turn so Otten could stare at the one-way glass to Cragen's office. She swallowed hard then snatched a chair from under the table and spun it on its leg until its back faced John.

She then collapsed into it and began to tremble.

_What the hell?_

John reversed the sheet of paper so he could read it.

**Ground Rules for Detectives under Discipline Action**

1. Detectives Munch and Otten are assigned to review cold cases together until further notice  
2. Said review to take place in Interview Room #1, where the detectives are to remain until further notice  
3. Detectives will remain in each other's company at all times with the following exceptions:  
a. Restroom breaks  
b. Showers

John frowned at the two stipulations.

_What about fire alarms? Gas leaks? Alien attacks and meteor showers?_

4. All meals are to be ordered in at the detectives' expense.  
5. One trip to detectives' residences for personal items is permitted. Detectives are to remain in each other's company for the entire trip.  
6. No physical contact of any sort is permitted with each other or any other person.

_I'd sooner 'physically contact' a rabid water snake...._

7. Shouting, yelling, profanity, name-calling, obscene gestures, and all other crude verbal or non-verbal displays are not permitted.

John glanced at the still-trembling Otten, and winced.

_'Shit' is right... since I didn't get a chance to read this through first, I hope Cragen gives me a break...._

He held his breath and waited for Cragen to burst through the door with Lt. Cutler in tow. When nothing happened, he blew out a deep sigh.

_Okay, I'm grateful.... and I'll remember to be very respectful and quiet while calling Otten a whore...._

He continued to read the rules.

8. No destruction of property is permitted.

_I'm forbidden from ripping the window grate out in a heroic quest for freedom...._

9. No interaction with any other SVU personnel is permitted except to notify the lead detective on-shift of restroom and crib breaks.

10. Should either detective under discipline action decide that the requirements of the action plan are too onerous to complete, this matter and the detectives involved will be turned over to IAB for further investigation.

_'Onerous'? Don gets so polysyllabic when he's angry...._

John tossed the ground rules by the laptop then he pulled another chair from under the table and settled into it.

_Looks like he got me good... I was so relieved to get discipline action that I didn't ask about the fine print... my own fault...._

He glanced at Otten. She had stopped trembling and was slumped in the chair staring at the window sill before her. He leaned left to get a view of her face.

_She doesn't look too good—mouth slack, panting for air... if she has a heart attack, will I have to ride with her to the hospital? The morgue?_

A mental image of the viewing room of his brother Bernard's funeral home with him and Otten in their dress blues, she laid out in a white satin-lined casket and him hand-cuffed to her lifeless wrist, made John snort.

_Please make this 'until death us do part'... at least give me the same out I had with my wives... speaking of 'outs,' there has to be a loophole... if Cragen thinks I'm working with her on anything, he's crazy...._

John turned the laptop in his direction.

_T__ime to inventory what he did give me... can't make a plan until I know what I have to work with...._

The motion disturbed the blank screen saver and displayed the NYPD desktop.

_We're supposed to share one laptop? Petty, Captain—very petty.... it least it's got the standard NYPD load, just like the desktops..._.

He lifted the phone receiver and heard a dial tone.

_Great... I can call out for spanakopita for breakfast...._

He set the receiver down just as Otten twisted in her chair.

"I am not convinced,' she told him, her voice hushed but shrill, "that your actions aren't deliberately meant to display your ineptness."

John leaned back in his chair.

_Using rhetorical devices to get around the rules... I didn't think you had it in you...._

He brought his hands together in a slow clap.

"Brava, Otten, brava. I'm always impressed by aporia, but I'd be more impressed if you'd thought of it faster. You prove that the intelligence quotient for Brooklyn cops is lower than for the other boroughs."

Otten blinked twice as his meaning sunk in then she sneered at him.

"Senility," she replied, "increases with age in the same way that mobility doesn't."

John shook his head at the aphorism.

_Oh, Otten... such a lame response... if I were a nice guy, I'd tuck you into a cot in the crib and wait until you were rested enough to converse at my level..._.

He then drew his lips back in a toothy grin.

_...but, when you're out to get me, I'm not a nice guy...._

"You should know," he shot back. "What's it like to forget what you're doing halfway through a blowjob? Do your johns help you back to your feet afterward or do they leave you there on your knees?"

Otten's eyes went wide then her lids dropped and her lips tightened. She tensed as she glared at him then she turned away to face the window sill. John waited for her to say something. When nothing came, he leaned across the table, his elbows supporting his weight, and spoke to her.

"Hey! I'm just asking. Nothing on that list said I can't ask questions."

Otten kept her attention on the window sill.

John swept his hand out to indicate the file cabinets surrounding them.

"What about the assignment? Cragen sent us in here to work together."

Otten made no answer.

_Damn it... you've got to respond to something... maybe something really down and dirty...._

"There's not physical contact allowed. You won't have to perform your specialty on anyone, especially me. This should be like a vacation for you."

He saw her tense, but she still said nothing.

"Fine,. Be that way. See if I give you any credit for the work I do."

When she did not reply, John left his chair and paced to the outside window. None of the uniforms and passers-by on the sidewalk six stories below noticed him frowning at them.

_I can't believe this... I went from zero to seriously screwed in only one morning... I didn't do anything wrong—other than fight for my job... what is it with short blonde women? Why do they always have it in for me?_

He watched the street below and waited for an answer, but the Big Guy Upstairs ignored his plea for enlightenment. With a grunt of disgust, John went back to his chair. He centered the laptop before him and called up his departmental e-mail.

_No missives of support from anyone... figures...._

From there, since no one could see over his shoulder, he opened a browser and began to surf.

_HuffPo... Kos... Little Green Footballs—got to keep an eye on the weirdos... France24... refreshing to read about a rational country... that's where I ought to be right now... a small cafe on a busy boulevard, a stack of newspapers on the table, a cup of café with plenty of sucre... spend the morning reading and watching the people around me... French life at its finest...._

For grins, he imagined a tall, slim woman opposite him, her salt-and-cinnamon hair lit by the morning sun, her long legs stretched out so that her left sandal rested against his ankle.

_Connie seems like the sophisticated sort... I wonder if she'd enjoy a vacation in France... maybe she's already been there... I don't really know that much about her...._

He lifted his head and examined the back of Otten's neck.

_... other than we hit it off together and she's related to Heidi-Ho over there...._

John slid his chair sideways until he could see Otten's profile. She had her feet stretched out before her, her hand folded in her lap. Her eyelids were drooping slightly and her lips were parted.

_She's falling asleep... can't have that now, can we?_

"Hey, Swiss Miss," he called out, "how close are you and your sister-in-law?"

Otten's head jerked at the epithet, but she made no reply.

"Connie told me you never mentioned me at all. Were you planning to keep me to yourself?"

Otten said nothing. She held perfectly still, her expression blank, her focus on the window sill before her.

"Fine. Be that way."

John slid right until he was centered on the laptop.

_Sure could use some tea... I think I left mine on my desk... a leak wouldn't hurt, either... have to get permission from Howie first... he better not hold a grudge...._

He stood up and peered at his reflection in the one-way glass that faced the squadroom.

_For all I know, Howie and his crew are standing on the other side of the glass making faces at me... if I'm going to live like a zoo animal on display, I'd rather see the people staring at me... know who I should throw my feces at...._

He glanced over at the window into the captain's office. From it, another Munch reflection peered back at him.

_Cragen's own private reality show... wouldn't put it past him to order in canapes and invite his best buddy Beale over to bet on which one of us cracks first...._

His reflection swallowed hard.

_I can't afford to crack... I'm done with all my alimony payments this year and I need to stash my NYPD income for retirement...._

His reflection frowned at the reflection of the top of Otten's head below it.

_Which means I can't afford to have Otten crack, either... if she gets pissed enough, she might decide facing the rat squad is worth screwing me over...._

His reflection's mouth twisted into a sneer at the detective seated below.

_I'll let you stew for a while... I'm not forgetting you caused all of this—I'm just taking a break to see what happens...._

Three steps took him to the door. He opened it and entered the squadroom. Only Sue and Amanda were present: Sue at her desk, Amanda at the fax machine. The blinds in the captain's office were open, but he was not in there.

John squared his shoulders and stood tall.

_Time for a little Munch attitude... no way I'm acting beaten down for anyone...._

John strode up to Sue's desk and waited until Sue looked up at him.

"Since Howie's not here," he asked in a voice pitched low so Amanda could not hear, "do I tell you when I need a potty break?"

Sue locked her stare on his dark lenses.

"Munch, you can go to hell."

The hate in her words drove him back from her desk. He converted the back step into a turn toward the door.

"I'm not feeling the love, Lynde," he shot back at her, "but, given the condition of our facilities, I'll take that as permission."

He snatched the newspaper from his desk and kept going until he was out of sight of the squadroom. From the hall, he used his cell to call in an order for a roast beef sandwich with a side of slaw before heading for the men's room.

Twenty minutes later, he was staring at a vacant interview room and reminding himself not to panic.

_Go with the simple explanation—she needed to go same as I did... she'll be back...._

He went to the window and stared out at the building across the street. The offices in it were unlit, unoccupied.

_Happy little office workers home on a Sunday with their families... no shift work for them... no three a.m. bodies in alleys... no family notifications... no interviewing rape victims in emergency rooms... no marking a case "cold" because the evidence led nowhere... just a normal life home on a Sunday... lucky bastards...._

The door opened. He kept his eyes focused on the empty offices and listened.

_Light footsteps... slight scrap of chair legs across linoleum... door creaks as it swings shut and latches... brush of fabric as she sits down... and we're back to normal in our cozy little alcove...._

He turned around to see Otten back in her chair, legs stretched out before her, her arms folded across her chest.

_...isn't it wonderful...._

The next hour passed in silence. John surfed the web while Otten stared at the wall before her. When lunch arrived, she paid her tab without acknowledging John's presence and she ate her chicken salad in her chair, leaving John only the back of her head for company as he ate his sandwich.

After he finished eating, John tried to get a rise from Otten by reading weird news items aloud—something that always drove Fin to profanity. Nothing provoked Otten, not even the story about Australian artists growing living cells from animals on biodegradable scaffolding so that, when the scaffolds rotted away, a living organism in their shape remained on display.

"Not only is it art," he told her, "but, if they use sheep or cow cells, it's kosher, too. You should appreciate the efficiency."

Otten said nothing in reply. John peered at her over the screen of the laptop.

_Not even a twitch... maybe I bored her to death...._

He was about to walk over and check her pulse when the door opened and Detective Fontana, resplendent in a cocoa brown suit, entered the interview room. His apricot tie was neatly tied about his neck, but the cream-colored shirt under it showed broad creases John knew had been made by a Kevlar vest.

_He and Green must have gone through a door... maybe they tracked down that kid witness of theirs... no—not with that snarl on his face... finding the witness to Fred and Tammy's shooting would be good news...._

Otten greeted him first. John noticed her nostrils twitching just as the scent reached him.

_Gunshot residue... that would explain the foul mood... weapons discharge investigations are no picnic...._

"Are you all right?" Otten asked. "What happened? Is Ed okay?"

"Ed?" Fontana spat the name back at her. "He's the reason I'm here and not questioning Double-Dom the drug lord. Do you know what Ed did to me? Do you know what he did? He—"

He froze with his lips parted for the next word in his rant. John peered at him over his lenses.

_C'mon... spit it out... don't pretend you're afraid of us... sure, Otten's scary, but I'm not...._

Otten jumped from her seat. "Joe?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

The panic in her voice brought John out of his own chair, a movement that drew Fontana's gaze to him. The fear darkening his green eyes halted John's mental jibes.

_Some thing's not right... stroke... maybe seizure... got to get him down before he collapses...._

While Otten rushed to Fontana, John grabbed his chair and swung it behind the detective. As she grabbed both of his hands, John eased him into the chair and loosened his tie.

_You're a smug son of a bitch, but you're murder police...._

Throughout all of this, Fontana stared fixedly wherever his head was aimed and his breathing remained shallow and ragged. Otten knelt by him, keeping her grip on his hands as she lowered herself to the floor. She then squeezed his left hand, then his right, and examined his expression carefully.

"A stroke?" John asked.

He expected to be ignored, but Otten shook her head in reply.

"There's no facial droop," she told him, her gaze never leaving Fontana's face, "and both hands respond when I squeeze."

"How about epilepsy?"

She shook her head again. "I've seen his medical records—healthy as a horse. Even his bad cholesterol is good."

"You've seen his medical records?"

Otten made a "tsk" sound then turned back to Fontana. John snaked a foot behind him and snagged another chair for himself. While Otten murmured assurances, he kept a steadying hand on Fontana's shoulder.

_I'll ask why you're breaking into doctors' offices later... if this isn't stroke or seizure, then it's probably not TIA or another physical problem...._

"Then," he told her, "it has to be mental. Fontana here is seven days into a cop-killer case. The brass, the media, all of us are hounding him for a close, everyone screaming because he didn't do it yesterday. He sits at his desk reviewing his case notes over and over, wondering if he's the wrong one for the job, wondering if he missed the one thing needed to find the killer. Stress, lack of sleep, doubt...."

The sick tension in Otten's eyes told him she knew exactly the hell he was describing.

_I've been there... so have you...._

"Joe didn't say anything about doubting himself or being leaned on. The last time I talked to him, he sounded fine."

John used his free hand to point at Fontana.

"The man quivering like Jell-o between us is not 'fine,'" he told her, his voice low to avoid spooking Fontana. "In my not-so-expert but very experienced opinion, this is a psychotic break just like the one you had after shooting Lau."

He feared Otten might let go of Fontana's hands and hit him, her face showed that much anger at his accusation.

"Joe's like Fin," she replied, "personal life, cases, departmental crap, all neatly walled off from each other. Near as I can tell, nothing fazes him."

John frowned at her denial.

"It doesn't matter what kind of walls we build. The crap piles up so high, nothing keeps it from burying us."

Between them, Fontana gasped. His head jerked up and his gaze darted around as he oriented himself.

"Can you talk?" John asked.

He croaked out a "Yeah" then worked his jaw to loosen his throat. "I think so."

His gaze went back to Otten's face and her hands tightened around Fontana's fingers.

"Joe," she asked, "what happened?"

John griped his shoulder tighter, willing him not to fugue out again.

Just tell us... we can't do a damn thing to help until we know what to do....

Fontana stared at Otten, his face slack, his eyes vacant as he struggled to answer.

"I killed a kid."

Images flashed through John's mind: an unmarked car with a child flying over its hood, a child struck by a stray bullet and bleeding out in his bed, a cornered suspect holding a knife at a child's throat....

_If he just lost his witness in a hostage situation, shit—I'd break, too...._

"An accident?"

The question came from Otten. The answer was a slow shake of Fontana's head.

He then told them how it went down, his gaze never leaving Otten's face and his voice never rising above a hoarse whisper. John hung on every word. Across from him, Otten kept a tight grip on Fontana's hands and listened with the same intensity.

The parts Fontana didn't tell them—how Anacacis misused and mistreated his catamite, how he turned Meade from a happy four-year-old to a stone cold killer acting as Double-Dom's enforcer—John's own experience filled in.

_No wonder you're a wreck... we aren't made to handle pure evil...._

When he finished, Fontana slumped forward, his chin resting on his loosened tie.

"I've been suspended," he said. "Psych review. I guess it's justified."

Otten patted his hand.

"It's a formality," she assured him. "You'll be cleared."

John peered at her over his lenses.

_You can't promise that... shrinks are a law unto themselves...._

Over Fontana's bowed head, she glared back at him.

_Yeah, I know... telling him he's doomed is worse...._

Between them, Fontana shook his head.

"I'm not so sure, Judith. My own partner lost faith in me."

Otten patted his hand again.

"Ed knows what a tightrope walk this job is. You just lost your balance for a bit. You'll get your footing back and everything will be fine."

Her optimism drew a thin smile from Fontana, but it jogged a memory for John. He drew back from the two detectives, a motion neither noticed, so he could stare directly at Otten.

_She see the job as a tightrope... I see it as a pinpoint, but it's the same concept... both are dangerous, both require balance... if we fall into the abyss, we lose everything...._

As she and Fontana continued to talk, John followed his train of thought.

_I've seen what happens to those who fall.... Pete Savarese, from my Southwestern District days... he caught a drive-by shooting one night—two corner boys no more than fourteen years old, gunned down by rivals... next night at roll call, Pete burst into tears at the thought of another shift on Charm City's streets.... Steve Crosetti, Meldrick's partner... never understood why, but he loaded himself with anti-depressants and booze and a harborful of Balto water... by the time they fished him out, his body was so bloated, we mistook him for black.... Felton, divorced, alcoholic, suspended—damn thing was, he was climbing his way out of the abyss when he was murdered... there was Kellerman, now the bitterest P.I. in Maryland... Bolander, he withdrew and retired after the shooting—that bullet did what nothing else could do; it made him lose his nerve... Bayliss...._

He shook his head. The less he thought about Bayliss, the better.

_...Gharty—when I went back for Gee, he was just going through the motions, a departmental stooge...even Billie Lou had dumped him... Cassidy—he didn't fall so much as get pushed...Cragen's way of showing him that he was too soft for this unit... Brian slunk out of here like a whipped puppy, feeling betrayed by the man who brought him into SVU, one of Don's shitty but necessary command decisions... then there was Jeffries—another SVU casualty... her situation was badly handled, but Monique's own impatience with the process didn't help her any...._

He remembered a couple other situations, both much closer to home.

_That hospital waiting room, hoping for good news on Bolander, Howard, and Felton... between seeing them get shot, feeling guilty for escaping without injury, and basic shock and stress, I was past coping—all I could do was worry about their blood ruining my shoes... next time was thanks to the one hundred and fifty-seven videos of Dr. Holt... so much abuse and perversion... by the time I watched the last tape, I'd have killed for a total mind wipe... it was months before I could bear hearing a piano again...._

He glanced up at Otten, who was still holding Fontana's hands while they talked.

_I watched you crumble after shooting Lau... and I laughed... I'm good with kids and victims, but not other police... I ignored Pete, totally missed Crosetti's fall, made fun of Felton, distrusted Kellerman, bugged Stan selfishly, hated Gharty, let Brian leave with no follow-up, and I handled Monique's problems as badly as Don did... I'm no good at helping my comrades in arms... and I know why...._


	3. Catalyst

A/N: Catalyst: A substance that increases the rate of a process

I play a little fast and loose with Munch's past. The painting he refers to is Yves Tanguy, _Title Unknown_, 1926

If you're waiting for crime stuff, skip to the end of this chapter.

475 Cherokee Street  
Pikesville, Maryland  
10 April, 1961

The day was clear and warm enough to ride his bike to school without his mother requiring a sweater and a jacket and a knit hat and his wool mittens, so Johnny Munch took advantage of the freedom and pedaled off to class. After school let out, Johnny rode with Bennie Kaplan up Campfield Road to Iroquois Street, where Bennie turned for home, then he rode 'no-hands' down the hill to his own street, making sure to grab his handle grips just before the turn in case any of his mother's friends were outside.

_They'll tell Mom on me... she's afraid I'll fall over like a chopped-down tree... I reminded her I'm thirteen now—that didn't work, so I told her about centripetal force and angular momentum and how they keep bicycles upright... she just threw her hands in the air and said it was all science fiction to her... then she gave me a sugar cookie for trying to explain it to her...._

He coasted around the big curve toward home. A tall, thin woman in a blue shirt, black clam diggers, and a hand-knit blue sweater was on the porch of the Cape Cod at the apex of the curve, halfway between the corner of Cherokee and Campfield and the Munchs' house.

_There's Mrs. Seltzer, waiting for her kids.... I'm sure glad Mom stopped doing that—boy, was it embarrassing... hey, there's a police cruiser—no, two of them... and they're parked in front of my house...._

He back-pedaled hard, forcing the coaster brakes to halt his bike in front of the Seltzers' house.

_Mrs. Seltzer isn't waiting for David and Margo... she's staring at my house... I don't see anyone there—just the cruisers, but the front door is wide open... Mom wouldn't leave it like that... Dad hasn't shut the furnace down yet... some thing's wrong... it's wrong with Mom...._

Johnny felt his insides turn to ice. He jumped onto his bike seat and began to pedal as hard as he could.

_She fell down the basement stairs while carrying up the laundry... the stove caught fire or the oven exploded... maybe Bernie forgot to put his Lincoln Logs away and she tripped and smashed her head....._

He ran his bike over the curb and onto the lawn—a get-it-taken-away offense—and left it where it fell so he could sprint for the open front door.

"Mom!" he shouted, his voice breaking on the vowel. "Mom!"

He made it halfway through the entry hall when someone grabbed him by the collar and brought him up short. Johnny struggled against the hold, flailing arms and legs in an effort to strike whomever was keeping him from reaching his mother.

"Hey, now—stop that!"

A hand on his shoulder spun him around. Johnny saw a dark blue wool uniform, belted about the waist, with sergeant's stripes and a badge that read "Baltimore County Police." It was worn by a bur|y man with a broad Irish face and brush-cut red hair. To his left, another policeman, this one tall and blond, stood in his living room. That policeman's hand rested on the fireplace mantle by the family menorah as though caught in the act of picking it up.

Johnny stopped trying to hit the sergeant.

_Maybe it isn't Mom... maybe they found out about Ernie setting the trash on fire behind McLean's Garage... it was an accident—Ben had a pack of his Dad's Lucky Strikes and we were going try them... I didn't do anything... I got the heck out of there when Ernie dropped the lit match and everything went "FOOM!"... we didn't know Old Man McLean dumped his greasy rags out there—honest, we didn't...._

The second Johnny stopped struggling, the sergeant introduced himself.

"I'm Sergeant Eagan. You're John Munch, the older boy?"

Johnny nodded.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen. I'm thirteen."

"You've been—what you call it? Bar mistahed?"

Johnny looked him straight in the eye.

_That's not even close... dumb Irish cop...._

"No, sir," he said, "I've become bar mitzvah."

The patrolman stepped toward them, prompted by the disdain in Johnny's voice. The sergeant frowned at the correction, but waved the patrolman off.

"Close enough," he told Johnny. "You being bar mitzvahed and all—that means you're a man, ready to be responsible and grown-up, right?"

Johnny swallowed hard.

_Oh, boy... they want me to take the blame for Old Man McLean's shed burning down... Dad's gonna kill me...._

Johnny nodded. "Yes, sir."

"That's good, 'cause that's what I need you to be right now—responsible and grown-up and able to handle things."

His throat was too dry to say anything so Johnny nodded again.

"Now, your mother is fine... "

_Mom? I forgot about Mom... but if she's fine, then Bernie...?_

"... but your dad—well, there's no good way to say this, son. It's your dad."

_Dad? Dad's hurt?_

He must have said it aloud because the sergeant's expression turned somber before he shook his head at Johnny.

_No—Dad can't be gone... I said things last night... he got mad... he can't be gone... no...._

All the moisture that wasn't in his throat went to his eyes. Johnny blinked rapidly, trying to hide the tears from the sergeant.

"We just told your mother," the sergeant continued. "She's in her bedroom with your little brother. They need someone to be strong for them—at least until your relatives arrives. Can you do that?"

Everything inside him wanted to scream "No," but he knew he had to follow the sergeant's request.

_Mom will be a basket case... Bernie's a little kid... I guess it has to be me...._

He nodded. The sergeant approved his decision with a tight smile.

"We've called your uncle Andrew and your grandfather," he said. "They'll both be here as soon as they can."

Johnny nodded again.

_Not Dad... not Dad... last time I saw him, I made him mad at me... not Dad...._

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry about your dad and about what I'm asking you to do. It's tough work, but that's what we men have to do."

The sergeant gave Johnny's shoulder a squeeze.

"You head in there now—be with your mom and your brother. We'll handle the rest. "

Manhattan SVU  
Interview Room One  
11 July

The pain that always clogged John's chest when he thought about his father's death...

_... even after forty-seven years, it still hurts..._

... loosened gradually as he remembered.

_I sat with Mom and Bernie until Uncle Andrew and Aunt Vera arrived... Grandpa and Aunt Katalin showed up right after... my aunts took over caring for Mom and then they began arranging the mourning rituals... Grandpa just sat there on the sofa like a rag doll, his eyes all wet and empty... Uncle Andrew talked with the police and Rabbi Sussman and the other family members when they showed up... I listened in and learned how Dad had died—it floored me... everyone knew Dad had problems, but not like that... Bernie stuck to me like a leech... I never told my brother how much I needed him near me that day... everyone else was too busy for us...._

It wasn't until evening that Uncle Andrew had a chance to talk to his nephew. They sat on Johnny's bed, Bernie asleep in his own across the room. In the yellow glow of the rearing mustang night light on the dresser, Uncle Andrew tried to explain to Johnny why his father had blown his brains out in the parking lot of Miller's Furniture Barn.

_We know so much more about severe depression now... we can recognize it and treat it... back then, Dad was considered withdrawn, but a good worker—if we'd known the term back then, we'd have called him a workaholic... working long hours was how Dad hid from his failure as a husband and father... he wasn't a failure, but we couldn't make him believe it...._

John stared at the scuffed green linoleum at his feet.

_I listened to my uncle, but all I could think about was me telling Dad how I hated him and how now he'd never forgive me... I could ask HaShem for forgiveness and I did, but I could never tell Dad that I didn't mean it... I've lived with that regret ever since...._

At the edge of his vision were Fontana's Belgian loafers, dark brown lizard-patterned calfskin. Instead of sneering at their preciousness, John considered the man wearing them.

_You've got the same problem... because you dropped Meade, you'll never know if you saved your partner's life or if you ruined a 'happy ever after' ending... you can't ask the boy to explain or forgive you because death ends all chance for that.... all you get is unending regret... the heaviest part of the load we carry...._

He remembered again those who had cracked under the weight of 'protecting and serving.'

_We're supposed to handle the load, even when the pain and the filth and the hopelessness are too much to bear... Sergeant Eagan told me that the police will handle it... that's what I hide behind whenever someone breaks under the strain... 'you're police—suck it up'... the truth is, there are times when we just can't... we see too much, lose too much of ourselves...._

In that hospital room, when John was freaking about the blood on his shoes, it had been Giardello who steadied him. When tape after tape after tape of Holt abusing his students threatened to overwhelm him, Cragen had made sure John got through it.

_Gee and Don...they did for me what I've failed to do too damn many times for too many others... they helped me keep my balance... it doesn't matter whether you see the job as a pinpoint or a tightrope or the thin line between right and wrong, not one of us can stay balanced on it without help...._

"You're right. We can't."

John jerked his head up to see Fontana nodding in agreement.

_I said that out loud?_

Otten now was in a chair next to Fontana. Her expression was carefully blank, but her eyes were moist as she regarded him intently.

_How the hell did I miss seeing her move?_

"I know all about 'handling everything'," Fontana continued. "That's how I feel—I'm bigger and better than it so it can't touch me."

He then lowered his head as though every one of his thirty-seven years on the job pressed down on him.

"Looks like I just proved me wrong. Talk about fooling myself."

Unsure of what was going on, John parted his lips and faked a understanding smile.

_I bared my soul in front of these two? Why?_

While he struggled to figure it out, Fontana turned back to Otten.

"I guess I should give Ed another chance, huh? Just like me, he can't be feeling too good after what happened."

Otten blinked a few times, her expression still held blank.

_Her brain isn't getting any traction... the wheels in there are spinning, but they're going nowhere... I know how she feels...._

"Yeah," she finally said. "If you can, let him know you don't blame him for any of this. I mean—a boy that young. Who would have thought...?"

"Yeah," Fontana repeated. "A boy that young."

His voice trailed off and Fontana's eyes lost focus as his shoulders sagged further down. Otten placed her hand on his arm.

"I know," he said, "I can't fix it now. Instead, I have to meet with whatever shrink Van Buren finds for me. Can't say I'm thrilled about it, but I don't see any other way."

Otten blinked at him again. John silently agreed with her confusion.

_Guy changes direction faster than a cat on ice... I bet his mother wished Ritalin was available when he was growing up...._

"You guys up for a early dinner?" Fontana then asked. "What with everything, I missed lunch and I'm starving."

Otten's jaw dropped open, but only a weak "uh" came out. She drew in a deep breath through her nose and tried again.

"I can't right now. Case reviews—Captain's orders."

Fontana gaped at her, jowls slack, mind not comprehending.

"That's crap," he told her. "You just wrapped up a string of rapes and a murder. What's the matter with your captain? Only a—"

John interrupted him.

"It's not like that. We both ran afoul of our captain this morning and he assigned us to review cold cases for the next few days. Otten was on her way to the crib when you arrived."

He peered at Otten over his lenses.

_Back me up on this... unless you want this loose cannon yelling at Cragen...._

She confirmed John's statement with a nod and a weak smile.

"Yeah, I was tired and I said the wrong thing," she told him. "Sorry, Joe. I'd really rather spend today with you."

Fontana looked thoughtful then, using his left hand to shield the movement, he pointed at Cragen's office.

"Am I," he whispered, "getting you two in deeper by being here?"

John glanced at the still-silent speaker by the window into the captain's office.

_Either he's not in there or he's enjoying the show...._

"I guess not," Otten replied, "otherwise Cragen would be here letting you have it. However...."

She drew out that last word, using it as a broad hint.

"However," Fontana repeated, "me hanging around isn't a great idea. Got it."

Before Otten could respond, Fontana turned to John and stuck out his right hand.

"Thanks, Munch," he said, his voice gruff and low. "I appreciate what you did for me. That took guts."

John stared at the hand before him...

_Nice nails...._

... before reaching out his right hand to clasp Fontana's.

"No problem," he said, striving for a lightness he didn't feel. "I'm glad to help out."

Instead of releasing his hand, Fontana leaned closer.

"Since I can't stay and take care of her," he whispered, "you see that Judith gets some sleep, okay?"

John gave Otten a sideways glance over Fontana's shoulder. To his surprise, she met his gaze with wariness, not anger.

_Don't tell me my performance touched you... last thing I want is your pity although I would like an explanation...._

Otten did not answer his unspoken question. Instead, she raised an eyebrow and mouthed the word "Truce?"

_A truce? You're offering a truce? Did I said something to soothe your savage breast? If so, tell me what it was... I might need it in the future...._

John peered straight at her as he answered Fontana's request.

"Sure, whatever you say."

Fontana grinned at him. Over his shoulder, John saw Otten acknowledge his answer with a nod.

"Thank, pal. I owe you—anything you need. Remember that."

Fontana then turned back to Otten and held out his hand. She took it before rising to her feet.

"You allowed phone calls?" he asked.

"No one said 'no'," she said. "We ordered lunch that way."

"Good. I'll keep you up-to-date about what's happening to me and you call the second you're unjammed, okay? Now, I'm out of here before anything else happens to you."

Without another word, Fontana left, letting the door swing shut behind him. Judith sank back onto her chair while John leaned back against the table and emptied his lungs in a deep long sigh.

_That was like sitting on a triggered bomb... or maybe under the cart in Tanguy's painting... yeah, surreal describes this better... no sense, no flow—it's like a unfunny Stoppard play... an arrogant jerk arrives without warning and everything shifts seismically... nothing is what it seems to be...._

Otten's voice broke into his thoughts.

"I meant that about the truce. Let's pull some case files and get this over with."

John twisted his neck to see her. She looked as exhausted as before, but her angry glare had softened to one of annoyance.

_Just like the frown I got for calling her old and ugly her first day here... and, if nothing is what it seems... oh, shit...._

"Fine with me," he replied, "but I have something to do first. Wait here."

He was out the door before she could stop him. Through the main window, he saw Otten hide her face in her hands.

_Cheer up, Otten... if I get what I think I'm going to get, I'll be the one crying...._

The blinds on Cragen's windows were open. Inside, the captain was at his desk flipping though a case file; his tie was loose about his neck as he frowned at the reports before him. John rapped his knuckles against the door before entering.

Cragen did not bother to look up from his reading.

"You two need a potty break—take one."

John assumed a rigid stance relatively close to 'attention'.

"I'd like to ask two questions, if I may, sir."

The "sir" brought Cragen's attention from the file to John's face.

"Make it fast," he replied.

John swallowed hard and got right to it.

"Did I just tell Fontana and Otten about my father's suicide?"

The captain eyebrows shot up, furrowing his forehead.

"You weren't listening to your own mouth?"

"No, sir. I was too busy remembering. "

Cragen's glare remained as cold and sharp as an icicle as he answered John's question.

"You started out with pinpoints and balance then you talked about the men you served with in Baltimore. You followed it with—"

John interrupted. "That's what I needed, sir. Now—uh, may I sit down?"

"No, and that's two questions. Get out."

Cragen turned back to his paperwork. John gritted his teeth and ignored the order.

"Sir," he addressed the top of Cragen's head, "did you bring Otten in to replace me?"

The case file hit the desk in unison with the drop of the captain's jaw.

_Yes, I know... I'm self-centered and suspicious... just answer the question for me...._

"Yes, Munch. I brought Judith in because she can handle two desks, two partners, and two caseloads. She's that good."

The sarcasm in Cragen's voice as much as his answer sickened John.

_I should have known... when she arrived, I assumed the worst—that my career was over... and assuming made it happen..._

Unfortunately, the captain had not finished with him. With a sneer distorting his lips, Cragen continued the sarcasm.

"Resuming your reputed drug habit would explain both your actions this morning and that incredibly stupid question."

He snatched a pencil from his desk.

"Let me note that for IAB while you and your paranoia get the hell out of my office."

John beat a fast retreat. Ignoring the stares of Howie and his shift, he strode back to the interview room.

_Duck this... put it off... I need some time to think...._

"Cragen okayed some crib time," he announced as he held the door open.

He didn't have to say it twice. Otten brushed by him in her rush to the crib. John lagged behind to get his copy of the NY Times and the lamp from his desk. He arrived after she had crawled into a bunk by the door, her jacket and shoulder holster hung from the head rail, her shoes on the floor beside the bunk. John ignored her silence as he chose a bunk opposite the room near an electrical outlet. After setting the lamp so that it shone on his bunk, he stretched out, the front page held open before him to hide him from anyone peeking in from the locker rooms.

Across the room, Otten's soft snores showed she had fallen asleep.

_Thatdidn't take long...._

Secure behind his newspaper barricade, John pondered his situation.

_I definitely screwed the pooch here... I'll never hear the end of it... it's one thing to listen to everyone's jokes about documented black ops activities against unsuspecting citizens—if they bother to open their eyes, they'd know it's really happening—but it's another to get laughed at for letting paranoia destroy my career..._

He glanced over the paper at Otten.

_... and hers, too... she did ask for a truce... that means she's willing to cooperate with me... somehow, I have to make that work to get out of this...._

He switched the front page for the technology section, opening the section slowly to quiet the paper's rustling.

_Solve a closed case... might as well ask us to spin straw into gold or locate an caring Republican—Fin excepted, of course...._

The addendum brought his ex-partner and their last argument to mind.

_If I hadn't tried to make fun of Otten, Fin wouldn't have gotten bent out of shape... he'd still be working with me, talking to me... all the shit I'm in right now is thanks to my deciding Otten was a threat...._

He peered over the paper at her sleeping form.

_I should warn Fontana that she snores... what the hell was that between her and him, anyway? _

All John knew about the homicide detective came from Fin's working with him on a case earlier that year and an evening spent with Lennie Briscoe not long after he left the Twenty-Seventh Precinct.

_Fin deemed Fontana "flash with no class"--take away the clothes and the attitude and all that was left was competence... of course, he spends more money on his threads than Fin can—not that Fin's jealous or anything... Lennie had repeated Green's stories about his new partner—his referring to Ed as "smooth", pissing off their lieutenant right off the bat, being somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun politically, acting more like a wise guy than a cop... he also said that Fontana gets more action than an alley cat in heat... okay, so both Lennie and I envied that one... someone should tell Fontana that men slow down as they get older... but, why Otten? Even a self-indulgent hedonist should have some standards...._

That conundrum did not resolve itself so John switched his attention to the paper and began to read. He had worked through everything but the travel section when Otten sat up in her bunk.

"You're in the crib," he called to her, "in case you're wondering."

She glanced around as though confirming his statement then, without a word said to him, Otten slid into her shoes, grabbed her holster from the bed rail, and headed for the locker room.

_Probably stashing it in her locker... I should do the same... no sense in wearing it now and it hangs wrong empty...._

He made it back from his locker before Otten reappeared with her hair back in order and her face still damp from washing. She crossed the crib without making eye contact and stopped at her bunk.

"Start in on case files or get some clothes and toiletries?" she asked as she shrugged into her jacket.

John frowned at the way she stood, her back to him, while she addressed him.

_Hard to work with someone who acts like I'm invisible...._

"The latter," he answered, "and add dinner to that list."

Otten considered the suggestion for a second then she nodded. Without turning to face him, she said, "I need to spend some time with my family.

Shall I have Louisa feed you while I do that?"

The little goodwill that Otten had gained from offering a truce vanished as the sting of her question hit John.

_Have Louisa feed me? What am I—a stray dog? Some beggar off the streets?_

He stiffened and glared at her through darkened lenses.

"Do I have to come to the back door, eat off paper plates, and drink from the garden hose?"

She turned around and, after a pause, blinked at him.

"No," she replied, drawing out the syllable as though unsure of his meaning. "You said something about my father and chess. Maybe that while I visit?"

John sneered at her.

_Nice recovery, Otten, but I caught your message—have the hired help treat me like trash...._

"Yeah, sure. Whatever—so long as you drive."

He yanked open the door to the hall and held it for her.

_I was a welcomed guest yesterday and nothing you do will change that.... _

John continued his overt servility as the left the station house. He ignored the dirty looks she shot him for every opened door and held elevator. When they reached her car, parked two blocks away, he stood by the passenger door as though waiting for her to return the favor. She repaid him by unlocking the door from the inside and giving him scant enough time to fasten his shoulder belt before pulling into traffic. Other than a request for his apartment's address, she said nothing during the drive to W. 183rd Street. John spent the time braced for imminent collision.

_Some truce... watch that bus—it's about to pull out... feels more like the Cold War... don't hit that cyclist... and I have no intention of being the Soviet Union...._

At his apartment, John quickly packed his clothes and some toiletries while Otten waited so close to his door, she seemed to be one with its paint. After he locked his hanging bag in the trunk of her car, they walked around the corner to the Fogel townhouse on Ft. Washington Avenue. Once inside, Otten abandoned John in the entry hall to go in search of her relatives. John made his way to the second floor, where he surprised Aaron Fogel in his study.

The next two hours were spent enjoying a supper of Lousia's party food, just as tasty for being reheated, and a hard-fought game of chess with Otten's father, a gaunt man in his late eighties. Thick white hair covered his head, the ridge above his eyes, and his upper lip; the hair and his light gray eyes were the only features that showed his kinship to his daughter.

As the two of them played, the sounds of animated conversation, mostly in German, drifted up from downstairs then died away.

"They all go to bed early," Dr. Fogel noted. "I am a night owl compared to Marguerite and her family."

Fifteen minutes later, just as John was admitting defeat on the chess board, Otten wheeled a black carry-on into the study.

"Are you about ready?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, "although I'd demand a rematch if we didn't have to get back. Working a double is a bitch."

He flashed Otten a toothy grin.

_See? I gave you a cover story for your dad... don't say I'm not keeping my end of the truce...._

Otten agreed and the two of them said their good nights.

"You'll have to tell Louisa," John said after they were back in Otten's car, "that her cooking is just as wonderful reheated."

Otten kept her eyes on the streetlight-lit pavement before them.

"I will."

He rested his elbow on the center console and leaned into her space.

"I had a great time tonight. How about you?"

He watched her jaw clench as she stared through the windshield.

"What's wrong? Is your mother worried about your boyfriend's intentions?"

Otten spun the steering wheel to the right and hit the brakes, bringing the car to a jerky stop in a loading zone between two streetlights. John grabbed for the dashboard and door handle to keep himself upright.

"What the hell?"

She answered by unfastening her seat belt and twisting to face him. The yellow glow of the sodium light shining through the windshield turned her snarl into a demon's face.

"You say one more word about my family, my choice of friends, or any thing else pertaining to me and I'll fix it so that Connie has nothing to do with you."

John felt the breath of that final syllable as she emphasized it.

"We work whatever case we can, and we get out of this mess, and that's it. Understand?"

Boxed in by the passenger door and her vehemence, John's first impulse was to strike back with his own threats.

_Except I don't have any... I'm as out of ammo as Custer at Little Big Horn... and, like it or not, she's right... we're chained together until we produce a closed case..._

His mouth puckered at the thought.

_... should be as easy as passing the Hope Diamond like a kidney stone...._

He matched her sodium-tinged glare with one of his own.

"Understood," he replied.

She slumped back into the driver's seat.

"Fine. Let's head back and put an hour or two into this."

When John said nothing further, she slammed the shifter into 'Drive' and pulled back onto the avenue.

The only change between their departure and their return was that John let Otten open all the doors, including the one to the SVU squadroom. The bullpen was dark and vacant. John flicked on one array of overhead lights and noted the time.

_Half-past midnight... everyone's probably at McMullen's—and, since they're not talking to each other, they're sitting side-by-side and drinking alone...._

He snorted at the thought then joined Otten in Interview One. She had laid her hanging bag and purse across the top of the file cabinets and was rifling through an open drawer in the one closest to the outside window. John dug out the hook on his own bag and hung it over the top of the open door.

"Are we're talking?"

"Case-related only," she replied.

John stepped up to the file cabinet nearest Cragen's office.

"Then, unless you like decades of dust on your evidence, you should try working from this end. That one holds cases from the fifties. This has the most current cold cases."

She _tsked_ at John before moving to the cabinet next to him.

"Why are they here? Shouldn't someone be scanning them into a computer or something?"

John nodded. "The SVU units were set up before we all had computer access so the brass had the applicable cases stored here for us to reference. I don't know about Howie's shift, but we never go through them. It's easier to use VICAP or RTCC if we need to check MOs or find similar cases."

"So why aren't we using the databases?"

John pointed at the laptop on the table.

"It's got the standard NYPD software load, but no one rewired this room for high-speed access when they did the rest of the house. You really want to wait days for each computer search?"

He yanked open the top file drawer, labeled '2005-2002', without waiting for her to reply.

"Homicide or sex crime?" he asked.

"Homicide. Let's play to our strength."

"You care if we work a child or adult?"

Otten shook her head.

"Then let's work the children. More glory if we succeed."

She sneered at his choice of words before squatting down to open the drawer by his knees.

"I'll get these two if you'll check the top drawers," she told him.

John bit back the urge to hum Randy Newman's "Short People" then he pulled out all the files tagged as homicide, open, and involving juvenile victims.

_I need a nice, easy slam-dunk... no Adena Watsons or Jon Benet Ramseys...._

The top drawer yielded six unsolved child murder cases. John worked his way through the next drawer, '2001-1999', and found another nine folders.

"How many do you have?" he asked.

She ran her fingers down the stack of folders piled next to her.

"Twelve from '98 to '96. I'm checking through '93 now."

John placed his fifteen folders on the table then he moved the laptop and the phone to a chair.

"Hand me that pile and I'll start spreading them out."

She lifted the folders up to him, first the twelve, then the seventeen she found in the bottom drawer. While she clambered to her feet, John arrayed them on the table with the most recent on his right, overlapping the open folders so that only the summary with victim's photo showed.

"I'm going for some water," Otten announced.

John grunted in response, too caught by the faces before him for distraction.

_Forty-four young lives ended... forty-four families wracked with grief... we clear, on average, almost 65% of all homicides city-wide, but that leaves a third of them unsolved...._

He stared at the forty-four faces, some of them school photos or snapshots taken by doting parents, most of them morgue photos showing the injuries and abuse that made the photo's subject a matter for Homicide detectives.

_With any luck, one of you will find justice from us... now, which one?_

He scanned the array of photos and their case summaries, looking for anything that would distinguish a solvable case from the rest.

_Forty-four kids... all under fourteen, more boys than girls and more blacks than whites—I hate to admit it, but Caucasians comprise forty-one percent of murder victims in this city while African-Americans are fifty-seven percent of them... "other" gets the remaining two percent—in other words, if your ancestors came from Asia, you're less likely to be a murder victim... except there's one... and there's another one... and another one...._

He touched his forefinger to the photo of Amy Choi, a five-year-old found strangled under a bus bench in 1996. Next to her folder was that of Liang Fei, a boy found dead behind his parent's Chinese restaurant in 1995. Catty-corner from Fei was Sukoncheun Pommpuang, a first-grader at P.S. 130 in 1996 who was found in an alley two blocks from home.

_Also strangled... Fei died of blunt-force trauma to the back of his head... Chinese, Korean, Thai... and Japanese—here's Tomoe Kimura, aged six... she was found in Bennett Park with her neck broken—right across from here I live, but three years before I moved here... four of these kids are Asian—three more than I'd expect to find...._

John carefully checked the rest of the photos. What he saw brought bile up the back of his throat.

_Damn... did everyone miss this or am I imagining things? It's been a long, strange day--too much stress, too many emotions... maybe I'm too wiped to think straight...._

Otten's voice came from the open doorway.

"Finding anything?"

John waved her over to his side.

"Look at these photos," he ordered. "Tell me what you see."


	4. Searching for Commonality

Interview One  
11 July

Otten closed the door to the squadroom then she glanced at the forty-four photos arrayed on the table.

"The ones you and I just pulled?" she asked.

John peered at her over his lenses.

"No—forty-four completely different ones. I've been very busy the past few minutes."

She ignored his jibe and gave the victim photos a thorough examination, starting with the oldest ones on the left and working her way to the most recent on the right. The amount of time she took and the two yawns she stifled while doing so convinced John she was giving the matter her full consideration despite her exhaustion.

Otten then pointed at the same four victims who had caught Munch's eye.

"This cluster—any indication of a single doer?"

"Their bodies were found in three different neighborhoods. Two were strangled, one a cervical fracture, and the fourth was blunt force trauma to the head."

Otten's grunt signaled her dismissal of the single-doer theory. She scanned the rest of the photos then placed the tip of her index finger on another, that of a dark-skinned girl with thick black hair, a broad nose, and high cheekbones.

"She's from the Andes—or her parents were."

John leaned sideways to see the folder around Otten's shoulder.

"Natividad Illamarca," he read from the case summary. "Found in between two parked cars on Amsterdam near Ninety-Fourth on July 18th, 1999. Cause of death was strangulation. What makes you think she's South American?"

"Eight months in Bolivia, one of the many places my parents dragged me to. My Mother got her _Altaplana_ series of watercolors out of it; I got altitude sickness."

Otten then flicked her index finger over several other photos: a freckle-faced boy with a mop of red ringlets framing his face, another dark-skinned girl with high cheekbones, and a girl with long blonde braids.

"Looks more like the U.N." she commented, "than a random selection of murder victims."

Otten then stifled another yawn behind the back of her hand.

"Is that what you wanted me to see—a blip in victim ethnicity?"

John swallowed hard to keep from yawning in reply as he considered the question.

_It probably is a blip... statistics say 42% of NYC victims are "white" and 56% are "black"... that doesn't mean they are all the same shade of either color... almost infinite possibilities here in the world's melting pot...._

"We can look at them again in the morning."

She stared at him with bleary eyes.

"Sounds good to me. I'm all for getting some sleep."

They both grabbed their hanging bags and headed for the locker rooms. John arranged his clothes and toiletries in his locker then he stripped to his shorts and undershirt and ran through his nighttime routine.

_Teeth, nose hairs, fingernails....I can skip the toe nails; the crib sheets are rough enough to sand them down without my help...._

John selected the same bunk as before and snagged an extra pillow from the bed above him before sliding out of his shower shoes. As he was settling in, Otten came in from the women's locker room. The light through the closing door showed her choice in nightwear.

_Dark blue tank top and drawstring shorts, hair braided in pigtails... practical and not very exciting.... _

He heard the twin slap of rubber thongs leaving her feet and the rustle of sheets as she crawled in. He had planned to count the seconds until she started snoring....

... _someone really should warn Fontana...._

... but he woke up before he could start the count. For a moment, John puzzled at the unfamiliar angles and shadows before recognition set in.

_The crib... closed cases... screwed career... yeah—I remember... ._

He rolled over and angled his wrist to see his watch.

_6:33... if I want a shower before shift change, I'd better get it now...._

Getting up was accomplished in three steps: one a slow swing of his legs that brought John to a sitting position on the side of the bunk, the next a shuffling of feet that put his toes in his shower shoes, the third a pulling himself upright using the overhead bunk's frame combined with a long, back-cracking stretch.

_I'm too old to camp out like this...._

He walked across the crib to Otten's bunk. She was sleeping on her side, back to him, with her arms wrapped around her pillow.

_A gentle tap on the shoulder from as far away as possible... wake a cop quickly and who knows what will happen... Fred once smacked Tammy in the face... not a deliberate slap, more of a flailing about during an interrupted dream.... Kay once got Beau in the crotch—he claimed his wife paid her to do that...._

It took two pokes to make Otten stir.

"Hey, Otten. You want a shower before the rush, better wake up now."

She untangled herself from the pillow and sat up. After a slow neck roll that sounded like the sandman had dumped his leftovers in her spine, she turned her face to him.

"Shower—yeah, shower," she said, "I can do that."

"Great, Otten. Glad to see you're a morning person. Soon as you're decent, I'll meet you in our lovely assigned work room."

Thirty minutes later, he was showered, shaved and dressed in a black suit with a dark gray shirt and black tie with a thin maroon weave. Several patrol officers and one detective, men who showed up early to use the weight room before their shifts, greeted him during his ablution.

_I hate communal showers... _"Hi, Franklin—how ya doing? Great, just great"_... I hate locker rooms... obese people think they get stared at? They should try being six feet-one and 140 pounds.... _

On his way through the still-dark and empty squadroom, John stopped to make coffee and fix himself a mug of tea, which he let steep while he phoned in a breakfast order. Otten came in as he was finishing his call. The full mug in her hand showed she had let the coffee machine fill her mug instead of the carafe. The frown on her face warned him that the caffeine had not yet taken effect.

_Light gray suit... blue blouse... back to pearl earrings... no one will accuse us of coordinating our wardrobes while we're in exile...._

"What do you eat for breakfast, Otten?" he asked.

"Muffins or roll, cheese, fruit, coffee," she replied. "Why?"

"How about s_panakopita_, olives, _louhoumades, _and yogurt? You already have coffee."

"When did you turn Greek?"

"Back in Baltimore. Nothing like spinach pie to start the day."

His forced cheeriness did nothing to brighten her mood.

"You ordering?"

"Already ordered."

"Then I'll eat it. What more do you want?"

To show it was an rhetorical question, Otten turned her back on him and walked to the outside window. There, she pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and punched a few keys.

"Janet? It's Judith...."

While she made arrangements for her family to keep an eye on her house for the next few days, the four young Asian victims drew John's attention again.

_Otten said it last night... this does look like the U.N. ... it probably is lumpiness in the stats... probably...._

He pitched his tea bag in the trash and gave the entire table another going-over.

_Beaten to death... found drowned in Central Park... shot... strangled... beaten... beaten... strangled... broken neck... shot... beaten... broken neck... shot... shot—probably random shootings or corner boys being robbed or just in the wrong place during turf wars... strangled...._

The litany continued, a list of ways a child could be killed.

_... strangled... skull bashed in... stabbed multiple times... broken neck... shot... broken neck...._

"Hey, Otten. You remember the borough murder break-downs from the nineties for children?"

She turned from the window to answer.

"Yes, but only for Brooklyn. Lots of shootings that decade—fall-out from the gang wars and the pressure Narcotics put on the drug trade."

"Any idea why broken necks and strangulations would be as common as gunshots in this group?"

That question brought her from the window to his side.

"No. The order should be 'shootings, beatings, stabbings, other.'

A deep sigh followed her answer.

"Fin warned me," she said, "about you and your theories. He said you tend to treat every coincidence as a sign of mass murder."

"Are you telling me that this range of CODs is normal?"

She held up her coffee mug.

"Not before I finish this and eat something. I don't think well on an empty stomach."

"Fine. We'll wait until Mike brings us breakfast, then maybe your keen analytical mind will kick into gear. Until then, I'm going to check my e-mail."

He put his mug on top of a file cabinet then took the laptop from the chair on which he'd placed it the night before. Its cord and cable stretched just far enough to place it by his mug. With his back to Otten, he called up his departmental account and began to read.

_Union news... new health care guidelines... summary of cases from the other SV units... family news from Bernie... Uncle Andrew sent me the newsletter from his synagogue—wonder why... oh, it features the cantor he tried to fix me up with last visit... sorry, Uncle, but I think I have that covered now...._

"There's an awful lot of young victims here."

John glanced over his should to where Otten was peering at the array of folders.

"What was that?"

"These victims," she repeated. "There should be more teens—like I said, fall-out from the drug gangs. Instead, there's—"

The arrival of Mike from Epitropoulos' Deli interrupted her. John neatly stacked a dozen folders to make room for breakfast while Otten paid and tipped the delivery guy.

"You get lunch," she told John as she organized her food at the end of the table.

"No, I get breakfast tomorrow. You get today's food; I'll get tomorrow's meals."

"And, if we manage to solve something today and Cragen releases us?"

John grinned at her. "Then you're out the money."

They ate in silence. Otten plowed through the _spanakopita, _cracked olives, and two honeyed doughnuts, but ignored the yogurt. John finished his food before reaching for her yogurt container.

"Keeps you regular, Otten," he told her. "Sure you don't want some?"

She suppressed a shudder. "Spoiled milk should be thrown away, not eaten."

"You feel the same way about sour cream?"

"Actually, yes."

He snorted. "Good thing you aren't from Romania. How can you eat c_iorbă_ without sour cream?"

"Chorba?"

"Sour soup—think borscht but not with beets. You have to eat c_iorbă _with sour cream."

"Sour cream falls apart in your hand. Next time, try a spoon."

Otten chuckled, letting her sneer tell John that her laugh was on him, not with him. She then left the food containers for him to clear while she checked her e-mail. John dumped them in the trash before replacing all the folders on the table. He then let his attention return to the cluster of four Asian kids and the victims around their photos.

_She's right about the young kids... I missed that last night... put that with the Asians... and the odd range of causes of death... and I get...?_

Otten joined him at the table.

"You keep going back to those four kids," she noted. "Hunch?"

The question caught him off-guard.

_Is this a hunch... or a statistical anomaly that piques my interest? Is my reaction visceral or intellectual? Gut or brain?_

He turned his back on the folders and stared at the corner formed by the wall shared with Cragen's office and the ceiling to see if the four photos stayed in his mind's eye.

_Not exactly a gut feeling... but more than curiosity... since I'm on the spot and have to choose...._

He spun on his heel and stared down at Otten.

"Hunch," he announced. "They don't feel right."

"Okay," she replied. "then let's tear into them. We have to start somewhere."

John peered at her over his lenses.

"You're willing to buy that I have a hunch, but you won't buy that these cases are statistical anomalies?"

She drew in a deep breath and blew it out before answering.

"Statistics are a way of accounting for the uneven flow of reality. We can expect a couple of Asian kids to be killed during this long a span of time. Four kids is more than expected, but if nothing else ties the cases together, it just means that four murders were committed. In all likelihood, no Asian children were murdered in the years preceding 1993 or after 2005, which would even things out."

She gritted her teeth and frowned.

"As to hunches, I've seen too many work out to discount them. I don't like you as a person, but you are good at your job."

John suppressed a smile.

"You'd rather eat yogurt than admit that—right, Otten?"

"Don't push it, Munch. If this bugs you, we should check it out. You got a better way to tackle cold cases?"

It was John's turn to grit his teeth.

"Short of a new lead? No, I don't."

He waved his hand over the table.

"It's not just those Asian kids. You pointed it out last night—there's too much variation in ethnic types. You also spotted the lack of older kids. Something is skewing this group of cases and I want to find out what it is."

He dropped his hand back to his side and waited for her to protest. Otten instead looked at the folders and sighed again.

"If," she replied, the single syllable drawn out to show her reluctance to agree, "we pull another year or two on each end of this range. I'm not completely convinced this isn't some funky coincidence."

John let a smile curve his lips at her concession.

"If you want more folders, we'll need another table."

"There's a spare in Interview Two. No one moved it out after the brass met with us last month."

"That will do."

It less than an hour to rearrange the room, pull an additional seventeen files from 1990 through 1992, and call up the six open child murders in Manhattan from 2006 and 2007 on the laptop. John angled the second table end-to-end with the first one and arranged the new folders in chronological order while Otten set the laptop at the far end of the folders.

Working through the case summaries to find more factors in common took them past a soup and salad lunch and into the afternoon. No other Asian victims were present in the added cases, so John used the cluster of four as his base, the cases to which he and Otten compared the rest.

_Victim ten or under... cause of death cervical fracture, strangulation, blow to the head... not much to link cases together...._

Early in their overview of the sixty-seven cases, another oddity surfaced.

"Check these three out, " Otten said, indicating cases from 1995, 1997, and 1998. "Manual strangulation with no other injuries. It's like their murderers didn't want to damage their appearances."

John leaned forward in his chair to point at a folder from 2001. The young girl's face was misshapen and bruised, the result of being slammed against a wall until her skull flattened on its left side and her vertebrae had separated from the base of her skill.

"Over-the-top physical injuries—that's typical," John noted. "Multiple squeezed windpipes with no other trauma is not."

Otten's lips flattened against her teeth as she considered their findings.

_You look like you don't want to say what you're about to say...._

"We have three very tenuous common points. Think it's time for a cull?"

John quashed a strong urge to call a restroom break to avoid that question. The way Otten worded her question struck at his already shaky resolve.

_What if we are chasing something that isn't here? Spinning our wheels and wasting time on what really is a blip in the stats? "Tenuous common points" aren't going to close a case and made Cragen happy.... on the other hand, we have to thin the herd sooner or later...._

"Sure. Let's order everyone with facial injuries out of the pool and see who's still swimming."

Otten closed three of the files open on the laptop while John began removing cases from the 1990 end of the folder array. By the time he and Otten met at the mid-point, they had pulled three large armloads of folders.

John then examined the remaining twenty-seven folders. The four Asians were now three. The autopsy told how Amy Choi, the Korean girl found strangled under a bus bench, had bruises the size of adult thumbs on both sides of her face.

_Undoubtedly forced to commit fellatio on her killer... I know a lot of words, but nothing in any language adequately describes the non-human filth that can do that to a child...._

He forced his eyes back to the folders before him. Behind him, Otten finished stacking the culled folder on the floor under Cragen's window.

_I'm sorry, Amy... maybe, when we're through with this...._

He walked the length of the table, giving the folders a once-over.

"Hey, Otten—what's with the shooting victims?"

She joined him by the table.

"All ten or under with no facial injuries. I left two stabbing victims in for the same reason."

"Chuck them. I'm willing to believe a perp might vary between neck-breaking and windpipe-squeezing, but I sincerely doubt his M.O. would vary much more than that.

Her shrug, only a twitch of her shoulders, signaled assent. She closed two of the computer files then snatched the two stabbing victims and four gunshot victims from the table.

"What's that leave us with?" she asked as she added the six folders to the stack on the floor.

"Nineteen," he replied. "The earliest is from 1994 and the latest is on the laptop—the albino boy in 2006. We probably should toss him, too. You made the crack about this looking like the U. N., but there's no Albinostan on the map."

Otten returned to the table and tapped her index finger on the folder next the laptop.

"I could mention Mongolia, but the correct term is 'Down's Syndrome'."

John quickly reread the case summary under Otten's finger.

_Joshua Parkinson, aged eight, found strangled on April 19__th__, 2004. Body was inside a Dumpster in an alley off on 177__th__ Street—thirty blocks from his home._

The accompanying photo showed a pudgy-faced boy whose flat face and small ears were the result of Down's Syndrome.

A slow hiss of air from between Otten's teeth showed she was mulling something over. John stepped back as she walked the length of the table, spending time with each folder as she walked.

_I know what's bothering you... it's the wide variety of ethnic types, genders, and physical differences here... it's too wide to mean anything...._

"Serial killers," she finally said, "target a specific type of victim: young women, teen-aged boys, prostitutes. The racist ones pick a skin color or race unlike their own. They each have a comfort zone, a neighborhood or type of locale that they prefer: small towns, urban centers, truck stops."

She waved her hand at the files on the table.

"Here we have Chelsea, Tribeca, Washington Heights, Inwood, Upper East Side, Lower East Side. It's not just the kid's races and sex—their homes and where their bodies were found have nothing in common, either. There is too much variation here to even consider thinking about suspecting one single killer."

John raised an eyebrow at her string of verbs, but let it lie. His own doubt put it more bluntly.

_It's only a random bunch of kids... there is no pattern...._

"We just wasted our time?"

She sighed. "Looks like. I'd suggest a break—a change of scenery, but we're stuck here."

John gave the dingy green walls and mirrors surrounding them a snort of disgust.

"We're allowed the crib. Why don't we adjoin there for a quick nap? We can always claim our advanced age requires one."

"Speak for yourself," she snapped back at him, "but anything is better than spending another moment pouring over these files."

John opened the door to the squadroom. The first thing that hit him was the scent of fresh coffee, followed by the realization that the occupants of the room had changed since his last restroom break.

_Shit, we have to walk the gauntlet of our own shift...._

Couch, at his desk, had turned his head when John opened the door. He went back to his reading without acknowledging John's presence. He kept his attention on his paperwork while the two detectives walked behind him and Olivia, also seated at her desk, to the hallway door.

_Olivia didn't look up, either... I don't see Elliot or Fin anywhere, but there's an open can of soda on Fin's desk...._

He glanced back at Otten. She looked like she wanted to cry until she noticed him, then her expression went blank.

_I'm not saying a word about that, Otten... being ignored by them hits me hard, too...._

Otten's cell phone rang just as John was opening the door to the crib.

"Otten. Oh—hi, Joe"

She took a seat on the edge of her chosen bunk and spoke quietly into her phone. Across the room on his on cot, John caught only the words, "That soon?" He stretched out on his back and ignored the conversation until Otten called his name.

"Munch—you know anything about a Dr. Skoda?"

He raised up on his left elbow to answer.

"Yeah, he's a no-nonsense guy. Fontana scheduled to see him?"

At Otten's nod, he continued, "Skoda will give him a fair shake. Wish him luck for me."

Otten's eyebrow shot up. John shrugged in reply.

_Don't look so shocked, Otten... I can empathize with Fontana... right now I'm allowed to empathize with anyone facing the possible loss of his job...._

He settled back and stared at the mattress and bed slats above him.

_Hell, how are we supposed to get out of this mess? 'Review cold cases'... Cragen didn't say if that means going through every file in those damn cabinets or if it means solving one.... either way, it's a Sisyphean task...._

Across the room, Otten snapped her phone shut then lowered her head and sighed.

"Fontana okay?"

Her head jerked up at his question, and her scowl warned him to shut up.

"I'm just asking," he told her. "You and he seem to be...."

John held out both hands as though waiting for her to hand him the correct descriptive noun. When she said nothing, he said, "Look, guys don't drive across Manhattan so they fall apart in front of their hook-ups. I personally don't see it, but if you make Fontana want to burn his little black book and settle down, then good for you."

Otten's scowl deepened. She put her phone back into her pocket then slid back against the wall with her arms crossed and her legs stretched out before her. Seconds passed before she spoke.

"That was meant as a compliment?"

John rolled onto his left side so he could look at her.

"Not really. Call it more of a fact. You don't want to talk about it, fine."

The silence that followed proved Otten did not want to talk about it. That left only faint sounds of locker doors slamming and the rush of water through pipes in the wall behind him to entertain John.

_I don't like silence much... give me music, news reports, street noise—even the sound of my own voice... anything that isn't the echoes of memories...._

John pushed himself up and swung his feet to the floor, ducking to clear the bed slats over his head.

_Pick a job-related topic... maybe that will get her talking...._

"You ever work any serial murders?" he asked.

Otten blinked at his question. John waited while she considered her response.

"Not as primary," she replied. "We had a string of rape-murders back in 1994; Andy Tate was the primary on that one. One of Anthony Wayne Haverty's victims was found in Marine Park, but we didn't tie him to Haverty until Erie County caught him with victim number eleven."

Without looking at John, she asked, "How about you?"

_I was hoping for more details... aren't women supposed to be chatty?_

"You know about the sniper Charm City had back in '96?"

She nodded. "He took out over a dozen people, didn't he?"

"'They'," John corrected her, "not 'he'. There were two shooters, the original and a copycat. Sniper Number One killed nine before blowing his own brains out. The copycat killed five more before he so thoughtfully walked into our arms."

"Your cases?"

"No, I was just part of the team."

In the silence from Otten that followed his reply, John remembered those cases.

_Pembleton was the primary on the copycat case, Bayliss on the first one... having the shooter—what was his name?... having him suicide while Tim was trying to talk to him tore Tim up... of course, damn near every case Timmy worked tore him up: Adena Watson, this sniper, that homeless guy who killed the Buddhist monk, Ryland—don't think about Ryland... think about that gay hate crime murder—yeah, that one messed with Bayliss, too...._

Otten's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Didn't Baltimore have one of the first murders shown on the Internet?"

_Shit... I just thought about Ryland... damn it, Otten—are you reading my mind?_

"Yeah, Luke Ryland," he replied, "the Internet Killer."

"Was Ryland a one-off?"

John sighed.

_Give her the info dry as possible and change the topic... I do not need Bayliss on my conscience right now... I got enough there as it is...._

"Ryland first killed a woman who was staging fake murders on the Web. He then killed another woman in front of a live web cam. He was ready to kill his next victim when we caught him."

_Not that catching him mattered... the State's Attorney screwed up and Ryland walked... he told Bayliss to his face that he planned to kill again... that's why Bayliss shot him... and why Tim now is in Hagerstown... now, change the subject...._

John raised his chin, assuming what Fin referred to as 'your damn lecture mode', and looked down his nose at Otten.

"Ryland was a serial killer, but the snipers were not. One of the hallmarks of a serial killer is that all the victims have something in common. Both the first sniper and the copycat chose indiscriminately and killed several at one time. That distinction makes them mass murderers."

While Otten was busy nodding to acknowledge that truth, he shot Otten a dirty look.

_Why couldn't some other Balto murder stick in your head? Why this one?_

John was about to pontificate further on that point when the door to the hall opened and Benson stuck her head in. She glanced at Otten sitting on her bunk then at John across the room on his.

_Checking up on us... at least she has the decency to look embarrassed about it.... _

"Tell the warden," he told Benson, "that bed check found us in our bunks where we belong."

Olivia stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

"Sorry, guys. I'm supposed to check on you twice during the shift."

Otten then asked her what was happening during the shift. Olivia took a seat on the bunk nearest the door before she answered.

"Cragen," she told them, "has been a real butt all afternoon. He just left for the evening with Beale. Fin and Couch are working a child molestation reported by a day care in Tribeca. Elliot and I are holding the fort. The only news is that we're getting two detectives Thursday morning."

"Cragen say who?" John asked.

"Nope, and he didn't sound like he wanted questions, but enough about that. You guys getting anywhere with the cold cases?"

John detailed the past nine hours of folder shuffling and how they were about to label it fruitless.

"I know you're supposed to ignore us," he told Olivia, "but I wouldn't mind a fresh set of eyes looking at those cases before we put them away. How about you, Otten?"

"Fine with me," she replied. "If there's any chance we can still salvage this...."

Otten let her words trail off, a silence John took as a sign of her doubt. Olivia's thoughtful hum echoed her concern.

"Nineteen unrelated child murders? John, I really don't think I'm going to see anything you two haven't, but—"

Olivia pushed herself up from the bunk.

"Why not? If you don't tell Cragen, I won't."

John stopped for tea on his way through the squadroom while Olivia and Otten went straight to the table of folders. Elliot, who was at his desk with his phone to his ear, called out to him.

"Hey, John--pizza? We're ordering."

John dunked his tea bag before answering.

_If Elliot is disobeying orders to talk to me, Cragen must have moved far beyond asshole...._

The sorrow that swept through him at the realization made him duck his head over his tea, away from Elliot's curiosity.

_Damn... another police done in by the job...._

"Yeah," he said, regretting the huskiness in his voice, "the usual. Better make that two; Otten will want something."

"Two provolone and onion, got it."

While Elliot relayed the order, John hustled into Interview One. There, Olivia was leaning over the folders while Otten hung back by the door, giving Benson room to glean her own conclusions from the nineteen case summaries.

Just as John entered the room, Olivia began to shake her head slowly over the folders.

"I'm not seeing it," she said. "Yes, you've collected a string of cases with similar MOs, but there's nothing else linking them together."

Next to him, Otten slumped against the wall and let out a long, slow sigh.

_Deflating due to disappointment...._

Olivia punctuated her bad news with one final shake of her head.

"Hate to say it, John, but your hunch doesn't do it for me."

At her words, John joined Otten against the wall, its solidity providing a support for his own disappointment. His brain, however, refused to accept Benson's declaration that they were at a dead end.

_But... these cases don't feel like a collection of random stats... statistics just lay there... victims cry out for someone to speak for them... these kids are saying something... they're saying...._

He stiffened as though Otten had stuck his finger in a light socket. She turned a puzzled frown in his direction. Olivia took a step closer to him and peered straight into his dark lenses.

"John, you okay?"

He launched himself from the wall, brushing past Olivia to plant himself between the two women and the case folders.

_It's a long shot... I can't come up with precedent... doesn't mean it can't be right... it feels right... maybe I'm forcing it... won't know until I try...._

He pointed a finger at Benson then swung its aim in Otten's direction.

"Did you two ladies," he asked in a light, almost gleeful manner, "ever collect stuff?"


	5. A Hail Mary Play

A/N: A new (to me) photo of the squadroom shows that there is no window between it and Interview One; a bulletin board occupies that wall. For the purposes of this story, there is a window there.

"Stuff?"

The word came back to John in two-part harmony as both Olivia and Otten replied.

"Yes, stuff," he replied. "Baseball cards, marbles, coins, stamps, pocket knives, rocks—you know, stuff. I know ex-wives collect alimony, but I don't know girl stuff; I didn't have any sisters. What do girls collect?"

Olivia and Otten exchanged puzzled glances. John silently urged them to play along.

_I'm not trying to annoy you... I'm testing to see if I'm right about what those kids are telling me... think of me as Socrates... he used questions to find the truth... I use them to hide the sound of mental gears trying to mesh...._

"Okay then, dolls," Olivia replied, "hair barrettes, jewelry, horse statues...."

"Stuffed animals," Otten continued the list, "sea shells, books, glass figurines...."

"Wade Whimsies," Olivia interrupted. "Little animals that came in the tea my mother bought. I filled a shelf with those things."

John strode over to Otten and peered down at her.

"And what did you collect, little girl?" he asked, his voice smooth and patronizing.

Otten scowled back at him.

"I'm not your little girl and I collected hand-made wooden boxes, one from every place my parents took me."

The mental image of Otten in pigtails bargaining in a dusty open-air market for a carved box made John snicker.

"Native art, just what every little girl needs."

Before Otten could take offense, John aimed his finger at her.

"Now, tell me," he demanded, "what makes Olivia's figurines and your boxes a collection and not simply a bunch of stuff?"

Otten planted her feet and folded her arms across her chest, the position of a woman pushed too far. Only Olivia's whispered "Humor him; it's easier" prompted her reply.

"Quality, beauty, memories," she replied. "Each item means something, but together, they mean more."

He rewarded Otten by patting the air above her head. She ducked away from his hand and shot Olivia another puzzled glance. Olivia shrugged, a signal of her own bewilderment.

"You both get a gold star," he told them. "A collection is a gathering or assemblage of objects, whether those objects are wooden boxes or cute little animals or...."

He moved to the table and swept his hand over the table as though introducing the nineteen case folders.

"...children."

The two women exchanged glances again. Olivia eased back from where John stood, a slight shuffle of her feet that distanced her from his pronouncement. Otten pursed her lips and shook her head at him.

_She looks like she's about to take away my TV privileges...._

Before he could start to convince them further, Olivia spoke up.

"You're saying that these murders are the result of a serial killer, one who targeted kids from each ethnic type?"

John beamed at Olivia.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. This perverted sub-human collects kids. In fact, he was the first on his block to get the entire set."

Otten kept shaking her head. "Only a cack-brained detective could think a bunch of random kids is a collection."

"They aren't random," he protested. "The perp had a theme in mind, a grand design for his murders."

Olivia shifted her weight to her left foot as though she wanted to edge away from him and his theory.

"And," Olivia asked, drawing the word out, "that theme was...?"

John threw his head back and gaped at her.

_I figured Otten would shoot me down, not you...._

"I'm still," he replied, "trying to work that out."

Otten groaned as she turned away from him. Olivia's half-smile just drove the message home.

_Disgust and pity... reminds me of a few first dates...._

Before he could argue his theory, Elliot walked through the open door with two small pizza boxes.

"Pizza's here."

John ignored the scent of hot crust and melted cheese to query the deliverer.

"Elliot, you ever hear of a serial killer choosing his victims based on their uniqueness?"

"No, John," he replied as he set the two boxes on the empty second table, "I haven't."

John glared at the facile answer then watched as Stabler glanced at Benson for an explanation. Her shrug only served to make him angrier.

_What is this—National Blow John Munch Off Day? I've been at this job a long time and I know what I'm doing...._

"Damn it, Elliot," he said aloud, "at least give it a moment's thought. Do you know of any serial killers whose victims didn't have an immediately identifiable common characteristic?"

Elliot ignored him to speak directly to Olivia.

"Fin and Couch are on their way here. They just missed the elevator."

"Got it," Olivia replied. "You get the food to the lounge; I'll finish up here."

Elliot had the good grace to look apologetic as he hurried out. Olivia edged a step closer to the door.

"Sorry, guys. We're both willing to bend the rules a little, but not if it means getting caught. I'm sure you understand."

John forced a grin.

"Sure. After all, if Cragen dumped all six of us in here, we'd have to take turns breathing—'women out, men in' or something."

"I thought you said Cragen was gone for the evening," Otten said.

Olivia's only response was a raised eyebrow.

"Oh," Otten replied, her voice hushed.

"Yeah."

Neither responded to John's puzzled, "Hey—I'm here, too."

_Damn... I hate female telepathy...._

Olivia took another step toward the door before turning back to John.

"It's not that I think you're wrong, John," she told him. "It's more like there isn't anything to support your hunch. You two should walk away from this—well, maybe not walk away, but you should think about something else for a while. Eat supper and go back to it later. Maybe something will come clear."

She ducked out and made it halfway up the stairs before Tutuola and Sofarelli entered the squadroom. Both men stopped by their lockers to secure their weapons before heading to the lounge to join Elliot and Olivia. Neither glanced through the open interview room door; neither acknowledged John or Otten when they walked past the open door.

John watched as his ex-partner climbed the stairs to his supper.

_Would you really rat out Olivia for talking to us? Is this place and everyone in it really that fucked up?_

From behind him, Otten's voice answered his question.

"Olivia thinks Couch would tell Cragen, not Fin."

She also was watching the two detectives although, do to so, she had lean left and peer around John's shoulder.

_Using me as a screen... must be all that undercover experience...._

"What makes you say that?" he asked. "Was it that bit of non-verbal communication between you and Olivia?"

She turned away from him and let out a long sigh. Subtle hints—the set of her shoulders, the stiff angle at which she held her head—told him that the wrong words would set her off.

_But the right ones might open the floodgates... she wants to talk, but not to me... can't say I blame her... everything she's said to me has definitely been used against her...._

John observed her rigidity as Otten stared in the direction of the outside window.

_I need an ally... with her cooperating instead of sniping at me, we might actually close these cases... assuming I'm right... it feels right... I just have to find out how everything ties together... be easier to do with her help...._

He shifted his weight, easing the strain on his left leg. The brush of shoe leather against linoleum did not attract Otten's attention.

_This might be a good time to admit I caused the mess we're in... swallow my pride and tell Otten I wanted to drive her out of here... if I phrase it right, she might get a big laugh out of it... is letting her guffaw at me worth it? _

A quick glance at the case folders answered that question.

_Nineteen kids waiting for someone to speak for them—that's how Pembleton would put it... nineteen victims waiting for justice... that is the reason I became police—why I stuck with it through all the long hours and the departmental crap and the shit on the streets... through four divorces that prove I'm more married to the job than to anyone else... okay, those kids are worth my pride... all I have to do is open my mouth and talk... I'm great at talking... I do it all the time... just open my mouth and— _

Otten's gaze shifted from the window to the two pizza boxes on the table to her left.

_...say something before she shifts into supper-mode...._

"This is all my fault. I wanted you to transfer out."

Otten jerked as though shot.

_There... that wasn't so bad...._

John waited for her next move.

_Yell at me... take a swing at me... fall over from shock... don't just stand there stiffer than the coat rack...._

He shuffled sideways until he could see her face.

_Oh-oh...._

Judging from the flush of her cheeks and the fire in her eyes, Otten had no plans to fall over from shock.

_Nope, she's coming at me fangs first—straight for my jugular...._

John hunched over, shoulders raised to protect his neck as Otten spun to face him. Her lip raised in a snarl, her fingers curved to claw at him....

_No sign of a flight response—okay, fight it is... you get a free hit—I deserve it... but after that, I defend myself and damn the consequences...._

He watched her eyes, waiting for the lock that meant she was about to attack. What he saw was two shifts in focus: one to Cragen's office window, one to the squadroom window. She froze, her hands caught in their motion to face level. With a breath so deep it shook her body, Otten choked back her fury and lowered her arms, her fingers tightening to fists at her side.

She then took a step back and glared at him, the urge to attack so strong that she shuddered with the effort to control it. John eased out of his crouch slowly.

_That much adrenaline doesn't just vanish... hearts can't go from rapid to calm in an instant... I know mine certainly isn't...._

Otten drew in several more deep breaths before deliberately opening her hands, splaying her fingers in a effort to release the tension in them. Her glare never wavered from John's face, but its intensity diminished as she forced herself to relax.

Finally, she spoke one quiet word.

"Why?"

John worked his jaw sideways, both to loosen tense muscles and as a stalling tactic.

"You're Homicide," he told her. "I figured Cragen had brought you in to replace me. Since I don't want to be replaced, I decided to force you to leave—transfer, retire, whatever—I didn't care, just as long as I stayed and you left."

Her eyes went wide as she listened to his explanation. By the time he finished, she had rocked back on her heels and was gaping at him—mouth open, jaw slack.

_Not the answer you expected—huh, Otten? Hate to tell you this, but it had nothing to do with you personally... just me misreading the situation...._

She blinked twice then drew in a deep breath and began to berate him, her words picking up volume and intensity as she spoke.

"So you attacked my character and my reputation; you undermined my partnership with Couch; you ran me down me in front of the rest of the unit...."

Otten sucked in another lungful of air. John braced himself.

_That was one barrel... here comes the second...._

"You called me every filthy name in the book, not only behind my back, but to my face—"

John remembered her response.

_...'bombastic, insecure, four-time loser'... __that cut deep... and, if I hadn't attacked you first, you never would have said it...._

She paused and he opened his mouth to admit the injustice of his actions. Before he could speak, hatred again contorted her face.

"You want my family dragged off and gassed—"

John took a step back and raised his hands to ward her off.

"That's not true!" he protested. "The rest is, but not that. I'd never wish that on anyone—no one, never!"

Her lip curled as she formed her denial. John ran through his options.

_Don't attack her... I've done enough damage... time to end this now...._

"What I said," he told her with his gaze fixed firmly on her face, "was your family didn't look like Jews. Everything else was either stupid hyperbole or me deliberately trying to hurt you because...."

The rest of the sentence stuck in his throat. John swallowed hard and forced it out.

"...because I was afraid of you. I was wrong and I'm sorry for every thing I said. If there were any way to take it all back, I would."

He lowered his hands and waited for her reaction.

_That snarl's gone... she just took a deep breath... and blinked—that means she's thinking...._

Otten stepped away from him until she backed into the table. She placed both hands on its edge, sliding the folders back so she could grip the wood firmly. John shifted his stance and waited while she stared at the floor between them.

_We're supposed to accept sincere apologies, but some things are very hard, almost impossible to forgive... this may be one of them...._

Her silence held as she continued to stare. John kept waiting.

_At least she's not attacking me... she's thinking... I really want to see her expression right now... don't give in to curiosity... it kills detectives as well as cats... _

Finally, she spoke, although her voice shook and she kept her gaze focused on the floor.

"I shouldn't have said what I said," she told him, "especially the last one. You're not a rat...."

Her words trailed off and seconds passed before Otten raised her head to look up at him with eyes moist and red-rimmed.

"I know what it's like to be scared of losing your job. That's why I transferred here; I was afraid of being pushed out to pasture by my lieutenant."

She paused to bite her lip before saying, "I'm sorry I made you afraid. I did not know."

She followed her apology with a quick, jerky motion that put her right hand out in front of her, where John stared at it.

_A hand... five fingers... not clenched in a fist... I guess it means we're good on this...._

He reached out and clasped her hand in his.

_This worked... damn, this worked... unless she's setting me up...._

"Are we good on this?" he asked.

Otten eyed him warily.

"Yeah, I think we are."

They stood like that for a moment, both of them letting the stress of the confrontation ease from them, then Otten glanced at the two pizza boxes at the end of the table and released John's hand.

"How about some cold pizza?" she asked.

The next hour was spent at the table, both of them sitting with their backs to the nineteen case folders while they ate tepid pizza and drank tea. They kept the conversationlight and non-threatening: movies seen, music listened to, books read, favorite writers and columnists, both checking for common ground between them. It did not surprise John to learn that Otten leaned slightly more to the right than he did...

_...who doesn't?_

... but her decision to become observant as a teenager did surprise him.

"Usually," he told her, "it runs the other way—nice Jewish girl leaves home, sees the world, announces she's now a free-thinker, and her parents _plotz_."

Otten set her mug down and peered into it. John caught her gaze shift his way for an instance.

_Wondering if she can trust me with personal history, which makes this is a test... this is only a test... unless the CONELRAD sirens go off and she decides she can't...._

She picked up her mug and held it in one hand.

_So she can throw it at me if I use her story to attack her again.... she's willing to try but, subconsciously, she doesn't trust me yet...._

"For me," she told him, "it was a case of nice daughter of free-thinkers hoping that the effort of being observant would make her parents understand that she was very unhappy with constantly traveling and how much she wanted to go home."

Otten shrugged as though to say it was not one of her better plans.

"I was fifteen and my mother and I were in Tiahuanaco, Bolivia so she could paint the ruins there. I spent three weeks living on raw vegetables and cheese before she noticed anything."

John pointed at the remains of his dinner. "Shame you couldn't call out for pizza, Otten. A little dough and some heat—_voila,_ a nutritious meal."

"Yeah, it was pretty pathetic. We were forty-four miles from La Paz and the nearest synagogue so attending service was out. Our house had a full set of servants, so I didn't have any work to give up. _Shabbat_ consisted of me lighting two candles and then moping around the place, hoping my mother would notice how observant I was."

John choked back his laugh. Instead, he said, "Sounds exactly like my family. You didn't miss a thing."

Otten smiled, but didn't follow up with a question about his family. John peered at her.

_That handshake didn't end this matter... I've fought with too many wives and girlfriends to believe that... Otten has more to say about the things I did to her... if I want to show I meant my apology, I need to let her said it... to treat her more like Liv than I do my exes...._

"Didn't you notice," she finally said, "that Cragen assigned me a partner and a caseload when I transferred in? He didn't give me Fin and you an empty box for packing."

_Right to the point.... something none of my ex-wives could do...._

"What I saw," he replied, "was me playing second fiddle to Stabler and Benson's string of rapes while you took over the Keneesha Bonner case."

"But I knew Reynolds and his planned victim. It would have to be stupid to throw away an edge like that."

"True, but I was looking through paranoid-tinted glasses, so I assumed the worst."

He tried to look sincere and contrite. Judging from the eyebrow Otten raised, he was not as successful as he had hoped.

"But that was only one case. Surely that wasn't enough to—"

John interrupted her.

"I found other things to support my conclusion. That watercolor on your desk—I recognized it as a Geistner even though its matte hid your mother's signature. The muffins you baked never included ones I like, only the ones my partner likes. That cough drop wrapper that led Elliot and Liv to their rapist—I found it, but you got the credit. Little slights and inconsistencies like those pointed to you being my replacement."

Otten propped her elbow on the table and leaned toward John, as though closer examination might make his reasoning clear to her.

"So why didn't you talk to Cragen about this?" she asked. "Straighten it out before it got out of hand?"

"That was about the time you and Don started your affair. How was I supposed to compete against the captain's main squeeze?"

John tipped his head and leered at her, hoping his smile would point up the humor in his words. She sat back in her chair and frowned.

"And, by the time you found out the affair was faked, we were both at each other's throats, and all we could do was keep fighting. Damn—everything conspired against us."

Otten shook her head slowly and John nodded in reply.

"If I hadn't made that first wrong assumption," he said, "then none of this would have happened. It's like a snowflake on a mountain, one little frozen drop of water that starts an avalanche."

"Yeah."

She sighed. John held his tongue and wondered if she still had more to said on the matter.

_Better to get it all out now... that way, any remaining resentment won't blindside us later...._

"You really know my mother's work?"

John eased back and grinned to himself.

_That's a question I can handle...._

"I've been a fan of hers since high school. Meeting her Saturday was... well, it was...."

_How do you describe meeting a major influence in the way you think about the world?_

"And you're really my grand-daughter's imaginary friend?"

He nodded. "That giraffe Cara carries is from the Children's Interview Room. You can ask Olivia. I'm sure she'd recognize it."

Otten put both hands on her knees and leaned it as though for the kill.

"And are you really seeing Connie?"

John gritted his teeth at the question.

_Do I want to admit how I met her sister-in-law? It makes me look desperate...._

"No, not yet," he said, "but I did meet her once before the party. It was a few months ago at a... um... speed-dating event. We didn't hit it off then, but Saturday—"

Otten sat bolt upright.

"Did you tell Connie you worked SVU?"

"No," he replied, wondering a bit at the question. "I said I was a music critic. Telling prospective dinner companions that I investigate rapes for a living is a real deal killer."

Eyes wide, mouth open, Otten stood there staring at him for a moment then she returned to her chair, and slumped down with a sigh.

"I don't believe this," she announced. "I just don't."

"Don't believe what?"

She shook her head. "It's too much, that's all. You're hooked into three generations of my family, but me—you damn near get me kicked off the force."

John peered at her over his dark lenses.

"We're not out of the woods on that one yet."

He shifted his gaze to the case folders on the other table.

_They didn't go away... nineteen victims waiting for us to find their killer...._

Otten's gaze followed his.

"You really think those cases are tied together?" she asked.

"Think?" John asked. "More like feel, but I don't know how to prove it. Want to have a go at it with me?"

The dubious expression on Otten's face warned him that she did not share his feeling.

"You said," she said, "this 'collection' has a theme that we have to find. Where do you want to start?"

John stood up to grab a legal pad from the top of a file cabinet.

"How about a list of every thing that might depict ethnic groups? If we can figure out where our killer got his inspiration...."

He let the sentence dangle.

_I don't really know what that will get us, but at least we're working together on this... it doubles our chances of getting somewhere... or the speed at which we hit another dead end...._

John pulled his pen from his jacket pocket and held it poised over the pad. Judith swept her gaze across the nineteen case folders then sighed.

"Ethological monographs and journals," she recited. "Anthropological monographs and journals. Ethnographic monographs and journals."

John wrote down her suggestions.

_Great... if our killer is a college professor...._

"Maybe something less scholarly," he said. "How about National Geographic or Smithsonian?"

"Sure, and all the travel magazines," she replied. "Good thing we don't have to worry about web sites. Not too many people were on-line in the early nineties."

John pointed his pen at her. "But some were. We can't count them out."

"Okay, scholarly journals, science magazines, travel magazines, web sites available in 1993 and '94—what else?"

He stared at the outside window, which showed the afternoon sunlight just beginning to fade into night, and considered more sources.

"Anything depicting ethnic types," he replied. "College textbooks, high school textbooks, grade school textbooks...."

"Classroom bulletin boards, educational movies and filmstrips...."

"When you hear this noise," John said, aping the announcement on each filmstrip complete with its high-pitched _beep, _ "hit the advance button."

Otten muttered "AV geek", and kept reciting.

"Documentaries, movies, TV shows..."

John picked up the thread. "Disney' Wonderful World of Color, Captain Kangaroo, Mickey Mouse Club..."

Her smirk warned him that something was off-kilter.

"Move into the nineties, Munch," she said. "Try Sesame Street, Afterschool Specials, Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego, and anything on Nickelodeon."

"Pee-Wee's Playhouse?"

"If you remember any Inuit or Scandinavian kids there, then sure."

He noted the TV shows on the list.

"As long as we're on kids," he said, "how about coloring books, reading books, toys, doll collections, souvenirs...."

"Souvenirs?"

He whistled a few bars from "It's a Small World," then began to sing.

"It's a world of laughter, a world of tears. It's a world of ethnic kids in ethnic gear...."

Otten groaned at the joke. "You really think the killer was inspired by a Disney ride?"

"Why not? Until we match our victims to something, everything is in play."

She jumped out of her chair and brushed past John. When she reached the laptop he had left on the file cabinet, she began to type.

"I'm putting a stake through that one right now."

After many keystrokes and several frowns, she read from the display.

"'It's a Small World' has 289 children representing 100 nations; no mention of albinos or Down's Syndrome."

John crossed the Disney ride off the list. Otten returned to her chair and read through the list.

"Which ones do you think are least likely?" she asked. "We could eliminate them and work on the rest."

John ran his pen down the list.

"The scholarly journals and textbooks won't consider ethnicity and genetic illness in one article or chapter. They are two totally different topics."

"Then let's set those aside," Otten replied. "We also can't verify classroom bulletin boards or if someone collected a matching set of dolls or souvenirs."

"Right," John agreed. "If the killer has nineteen dolls that match the victims, it will serve as evidence, but it's no help to us now."

He drew a narrow line through those seven items.

Otten pointed to the magazines on the list.

"Your argument against the research journal holds for the magazines, the documentaries, and the textbooks. They wouldn't mix two separate topics, either."

John marked those items off then he read through the remaining items.

"Travel magazines wouldn't have articles about genetics. Mind if I mark those off?"

Otten shook her head. "Not at all. Take the filmstrips off, too. There's no way we'll be able to check those out."

John hesitated. "There are websites dedicated to the humble educational filmstrip, and, before you repeat yourself, I wasn't an AV geek. I was a normal kid with a paper route."

"Fine," she said, "if you insist. Do you want to check out filmstrips on-line?"

He crossed out both educational movies and filmstrips. "They were lame enough the first time. We can go back to them if nothing else pans out."

John then placed his pen point on the first of the five remaining items.

"Let's check this one," he said. "An on-line search on 'albinism' and 'Down's Syndrome' should show if any web pages hold our killer's inspiration."

Without a word, Otten went back to the laptop and entered the search items.

"It corrects to 'Down Syndrome,'" she told him, "and gives me 69,300 hits."

"Add 'Inuit' to your search," he replied. "What does that give you?"

He watched her sound out the word as she typed.

"60 hits."

"Try adding 'Japan'."

She typed in that word without mouthing it.

"Forty hits, most of which seem to be lists of ethnic slurs."

"Any photos?" John asked.

Otten opened a few web sites then shook her head.

"No photos. Just lists, all of them with more than nineteen slurs."

John crossed off 'websites' from the list.

"That leaves us movies, TV shows, coloring books, and reading books."

Otten again worked the laptop's keyboard while John wondered what she was trying.

"I checked the Internet Movie Database for 'albino' and 'Inuit'," she told him. "Nothing matched."

"Try 'Eskimo'."

"Already did," she told him. "Still nothing."

"Good thinking," he said as he crossed movies from the list. "Can you run the same search on ? That should rule out television shows."

Otten entered the URL then worked the keyboard.

"No shows with both 'albino' and 'Inuit' or 'Eskimo' as keywords. Shall we eliminate TV shows?"

John did as she suggested.

"We're left," he told her, " with two possibilities: coloring books and reading books."

"As long as I'm here...," Otten said as she worked the keyboard.

Whatever her search brought up startled her. John watched as she selected a page and scrolled through it.

"According to this," she announced, "we should arrest the Dead Milkmen."

John spun around in his chair.

"What?"

"I thought you were a music critic," she responded. "Their album 'Metaphysical Graffiti' mentions a lesbian Eskimo albino midget."

"I know who the Dead Milkmen are," he sneered, "and I don't think hauling them in based on that album will thrill Cragen or Casey."

Otten turned back to the laptop and clicked through a few pages. "Forty-two returns for 'coloring book', 'albino', and 'Inuit', none of which help us."

John shook his head at her results.

"Can't say I'm surprised. Coloring books are too ephemeral. Finding an example of one that matches our victims would be like finding a needle hidden somewhere in the hayfields of Nebraska."

Otten left the computer to peer at the legal pad.

"This certainly narrowed the possibilities," she commented. "The only thing left is kids' books."

John stayed as he was, facing the laptop with his back to her and the list.

_We eliminated too many too quickly... I'd be happier with more options... betting everything on a children's book is too much like a Hail Mary pass and I'm not Roger Staubach and Otten's no Drew Pearson...._

Otten broke into his thoughts.

"We've done everything we can do from here. What's next?"

_On the other hand, what else do I have? _

John turned just far enough to meet her gaze.

"The Columbus branch closes at eight," he replied. "That gives us 40 minutes to get there and check the library stacks. If that doesn't pan out, we can try Twelfth Street Books; they're open until 10:30."

Otten greeted his suggestion with a quiet "Okay." John ignored her lack of confidence and went to the door to check the squadroom. None of the detectives were not in sight, but John could hear their voices discussing the Mets' most recent game up in the lounge.

"If we move fast enough," he said over his shoulder, "we'll be out of here before anyone can react."

Otten joined him at the door.

"I'm in. I'll sleep better when we've put this to bed once and for all."

_Thanks for the enthusiastic support, Otten...._

John shifted his weight to his better leg and got ready to dash.

"You didn't see anyone out there, did you?" he asked Otten.

"No."

"Oh, good. For a moment there, I thought we were in trouble."

When Otten failed to react to the quote, John shrugged it off.

_Fin always knew his lines...._

"Okay," he whispered, "on the count of three. One, two... three."


	6. Reception

A/N: Twelfth Street Books is loosely based on Strand Book Shop. Be grateful I didn't call it Hudson Books.

Serendipity, _noun_: The accidental discovery of something pleasant, valuable, or useful.

Columbus Branch Library  
Manhattan, NY  
12 July

On the second floor of the library, the children's librarian pointed out the most likely shelves for books about children from other countries. With only twenty-five minutes until closing, John and Otten started flipping through pages to find illustrations that matched their nineteen victims.

Eight o'clock found them on the street and bookless. They walked in silence to the parking garage where Otten's blue Altima was parked. Once inside the car, John slammed his hand against the dashboard.

"Hey! You want to beat up something," she told him, "hit your own car."

John surreptitiously rubbed his hand.

"All that page-flipping numbed my fingers," he said. "I'm just trying to jump-start the circulation."

"Looks more like frustration to me."

Otten started the engine and put her car in reverse.

"If the book store doesn't pan out tonight," she asked, "you want to try the main children's collection tomorrow morning?"

John flexed his fingers.

_If twenty minutes here was enough to give me finger cramps, the main collection will wear them down to nothing.... but it's that or admit I'm wrong...._

"Let's worry about that tomorrow. For all we know, Tuesday may find us locked in the interview room, grounded for sneaking out without permission."

Otten took the turn for the garage's exit ramp.

"We may be okay on that one," she replied. "We've remained in each other's company and we haven't interacted with other SVU personnel, just librarians and parking garage attendants."

John tipped his head back and peered through his lenses at her.

"You really believe that Cragen will split hairs for us?"

She shook her head. "About as much as I believe we'll find your book. You going to pay for parking?"

John twisted in his seat for his wallet and fished out a ten.

"I appreciate your support, Otten. I, for one, expect a phone call from Olivia asking where the hell we are."

Twelfth Street Books  
66 E. 12th Street, Manhattan  
12 July

Benson's call came while John was thumbing through his tenth picture book. He replaced the book...

_Returning books to their proper place is a sign of healthy social integration...._

... then leaned back against the shelf behind him, and pulled his cell from his pocket.

"Munch."

"_Where the hell are you?"_

"Twelfth Street Books, second floor, children's section," he replied, hoping a calm, honest answer would soothe Benson's wrath. "We're chasing down the tie-in for our cold cases."

"_You're not supposed to leave the interview room and you're supposed to check in with me if you do."_

John blew out a slow breath as he prepared for some verbal hair-splitting.

"Otten and I are required to inform you of any and all restroom breaks because current social conventions mandating gender segregation in public restrooms prevent us from following Captain Cragen's order to remain in each other's company at all times when one of us needs to relieve his or herself. Aside from allowing for that social construct, as long as we remain in each other's company, we can perform any function that supports our primary responsibility, which is to review cold cases and, if possible, close one or more of them."

There was a long pause as Olivia parsed his reply.

"_Are you with Judith?"_

John glanced left, down the long narrow aisle, to where Otten was standing on a metal step-stool, an open picture book in her hands and her cell phone trapped between her shoulder and ear.

"She's about thirty feet away. I'll hold the phone up so you can hear her flipping pages."

"_You're both taking a big chance."_

John wished Olivia could see his wry smile.

"If we're caught or killed, you can disavow any knowledge of our actions."

"_I'm not kidding. You even think about pushing this too far and you're history."_

"I already figured that one out."

He ended the call and pocketed his phone before pulling the next children's book from the shelf. The rhythm he had learned while checking the library shelves returned to him.

_Get a book... flip its pages, looking for albinos, kids with Down Syndrome, and the three Asians who first grabbed my attention... if I don't see them, put the book back and get the one next to it... flip its pages...._

He worked through the top shelf and moved down to the next one.

_Get a book... flip its pages...._

At the end of the second shelf, he checked his watch.

_There were fifty-three books on that shelf and it took five minutes...._

He reached for the leftmost book on the next shelf and paged through it.

_Get a book... flip its pages...._

At the end of every shelf, John noted the time.

_Get a book... flip its pages...._

When he got to the third shelf from the floor, he lowered himself to the wooden floor. A quick glance showed that Otten was kneeling in front of her shelf, working at the same pace that he was.

_Get a book... flip its pages...._

When he reached the end of the bottom shelf, John checked his watch then leaned back against the opposite shelf and stretched out his legs.

_Just over four minutes... this unit has seven shelves and it took me about thirty minutes to finish... _

John slid across the floor to the unit on his right then looked over at Otten to see how she was doing.

_What the hell?_

Otten was gone. The only human in sight was a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a maroon turtleneck under a lightweight leather jacket, dark gray slacks, and tasseled loafers. A pair of black-framed reading glasses were perched on his nose. The man was removing and replacing picture books with the same rhythm that John had perfected.

_Get a book... flip its pages...._

"Fontana?"

The man turned toward John.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing here?"

Fontana shoved his glasses further down his nose so he could see John clearly.

"Judith called to see if I needed something to do beside worry about my appointment with Skoda tomorrow."

"And did you?"

Fontana put his book back on the top shelf and took down another one.

"I'm taking the Fifth on that. She's downstairs checking the dollar racks. Those shelves are shorter."

He dropped his arm and held his hand out flat at his side, indicating the height of the rolling sales carts, a motion that made John snicker.

"She certainly isn't the tallest detective on the force," he agreed. "Did she tell you what to look for?"

Fontana ruffled the pages of the book he was holding.

"Albinos, Down's Syndrome, ethnic kids. If I find all three, get you or her to verify it."

"You got it."

John swung back to face the next shelf of books.

"Good hunting."

"You, too."

_Get a book... flip its pages...._

One half-hour later, John had worked his way to the top shelf.

_Get a book... flip its pages... that took another half-hour... at this rate, three of us will clear the equivalent of eleven units... that's...._

He paused to estimate it in his head.

_... about forty-two hundred books by closing, which is only one hour from now...._

Down the aisle, one unit closer than before, Fontana was working through the top shelf. John sighed deeply and followed his example.

_Get a book... flip its pages... get a book... flip its pages...._

When he was at the third shelf down, Otten returned from the first floor. She greeted Fontana then she sat down before the first unit on the opposite side of the aisle and began to check those books.

_Get a book... flip its pages... get a book... flip its pages... get a book... flip its pages... no conversation, not even from Fontana... we're all in the zone...._

At the end of the bottom shelf of that unit, Munch checked his watch.

_9:57... half-hour to closing... time for a pit stop...._

On the first floor, employees were tidying the shelves in preparation for closing. A young male in denim was at one register with a stack of art books while a group of Japanese tourists at the tote bag display discussed which ones to buy for souvenirs. Other tourists were wandering the stacks, their mouths agape at the rows and rows and rows of books. John ignored them all.

_Unless you can hand me the book I need, stay the hell out of my way...._

He was washing up afterward when it hit him.

_We found nothing... forty-two hundred books, plus the dozens we checked at the library, and we found nothing... we going to find nothing... I've got nineteen little kids who don't want to stuffed back into a file cabinet and forgotten... but we're finding nothing.... _

He stared at his face, gaunt and tired, reflected in the mirror before him.

_Maybe it's time to face facts—I was suckered by an improbable but not impossible coincidence... or worse, I'm right about the serial killer, but I'll never find the proof... I'm not sure I can live with that...._

He glanced around the restroom and saw no one, heard no one.

"How about a miracle?" he whispered. "If there is a spare one lying around, I know nineteen kids who could use it."

Then, after a splash of cold water to his face, he went back to the shelves in the children's section.

_Get a book... flip its pages... get a book... flip its pages... finish a shelf and start another... get a book... flip its pages...._

At the end of the fifth shelf, John grabbed the shelf and began to lower himself to his knees to reach the lower one. The sound of his name spoken beside him halted him in mid-bend.

He turned to see a slender picture book held at arm's length by Fontana, who had his index finger stuck between two of its pages. The book's white cover, upside down to John, had a series of smiling stick figures drawn in primary colors playing Ring-around-the-Rosy.

"You need to look at this."

The gruffness of Fontana's voice and the pallor on Otten's face beside him warned John of the book's contents.

He slipped his finger into the gap held by Fontana and took the book, reversing it in his hands.

"_Not All Kids Look Alike"... that certainly fits... written by Margery L. Chase, illustrated by Duncan Alister...._

The book opened near the back of the book. John saw two hand-drawn scenes of children playing. The leftmost page showed a boy at a kitchen table with a coloring book and crayons. He was working intently on a picture of a red firetruck, although his coloring obscured most of the truck's outer lines.

_Dark brown hair cut long around his round face, almond-shaped brown eyes, flat nose, tip of tongue showing between his lips... a match to our penultimate victim...._

The text below the illustration confirmed John's diagnosis.

"Kyle has Down's Syndrome. Children with this disorder sometimes seem slow and clumsy, but Kyle loves second grade and he likes to play T-ball and soccer."

The right-hand illustration showed a boy with glasses on a tire swing under a large tree. The black tire, the dark brown bark of the trunk and the shade cast by the tree contrasted with the boy's pale skin and hair.

_An albino, our last victim... what does Ms Chase say about him?_

"Robbie is an albino. His skin and hair lack the pigment that makes yours the color they are. Robbie must stay out of the sun when he play outdoors, but he likes to swing and spin on his tire."

He held the book low so both Otten and Fontana could see the drawings then John paged forward.

_Tall, thin African boy running with a spear across the veldt... stocky African boy with reddish hair playing a stone game in front of a lapped lumber wall... dark-skinned girl with her hair pulled back; her green uniform matches our Jamaican victim... an Inuit boy in traditional fur riding a Ski-doo... so far, every one a match to a cold case...._

"The next two should be South American," Otten said.

John flipped the page. One illustration showed a young boy in shorts and rubber thongs playing in the sand at the base of a palm tree.

"Tevinho," John read aloud, "is a Brazilian boy who enjoys the beach outside his family's house.

The second illustration showed a young girl in a dark maroon felted hat and wool shawl. She held a hand-made doll dressed in wool and with a hat just like hers.

"Carolina," John read, "lives in the mountains of Bolivia. Felt hats keep her and her favorite doll warm in the cool, thin air of her country."

"God," Fontana whispered, "this is it."

John quickly flipped through the rest of the book. Every illustration matched a victim.

_I should be happy... my hunch confirmed... a million to one shot pays off... pass caught in the end zone for the winning touchdown...._

To his left, Fontana had gone pale under his tan. Otten's teeth had clenched as though she was trying not to retch.

_And I want to vomit, too... finding this means someone is killing children—lots of children—right under our noses... SVU didn't know... Manhattan Homicide didn't know... no one knew except the killer...._

The fluorescent lights overhead flicked on and off. Someone on the first floor yelled, "Hey, up there—ten minutes."

None of the three detectives spoke for a moment then Fontana asked, "Now what?"

Otten swallowed hard an dsaid, "Munch tells me 'I told you so,' and we go buy the book."

John checked the inside of the front cover.

"$2.50," he said, "and I won't say a word. I'm as shocked about finding this as you guys are."

The clerk in his "Twelfth Street" ball cap, however, had a different reaction. He stepped away from his register and pointed at the book in John's hands.

"Oh, you don't want this book," he said. "The author has such a colonial mindset toward her subjects. Let me find you one that won't warp your grandkids' world view."

John drew himself to full height and glared down at the clerk.

"This book," he demanded, "right now. If you have any other copies in stock, deliver them as soon as possible to the desk sergeant at the Sixteenth Precinct for Detective John Munch—got it?"

The clerk rang up the order without further comment. John waved away the plastic bag, and tossed his business card on the counter before heading outside, where Otten and Fontana were waiting for him.

"Well?" Otten asked him, "now what?"

"I had planned," he replied, "to console our failure with something from McGuinty's before heading back to the house, but not now. A serial killer with nineteen victims isn't something to celebrate."

Fontana pointed at the book in John's hands.

"The second you get back with that, this becomes a priority case. You'll have to move fast to keep Major Case from taking over—trust me; I know what I'm talking about."

"What we need to do," Otten said, her speech slow as she thought out her words, "is put all this—the book, the cases, the time line—put them all together in a neat package for Cragen. If we present it to him as a viable case...."

"You need to comb through everything," Fontana told her, "look for matches in the dump locations, the time of day, the position of the bodies...."

"... and if any persons of interest were reported in the case notes and if their descriptions match...."

"... and get all the evidence from Pearson Place. I can help with that...."

"... and we need to talk to Huang—see if he can develop a profile for us...."

The two detectives turned towards Fourth Avenue, where Otten had parked, as they continued their discussion. John lagged behind.

_We both know how to investigate... Otten must be humoring him... maybe now is a good time to tell Fontana she snores...._

He paused under a street light and looked at the book in his hands.

_They are right about one thing... finding this book only starts the process...._

He opened the book again, this time to the three pages depicting the Thai, Chinese, and Japanese children.

_Maybe you'll stop bugging me now... you three, and the Maori girl, and the boy whose parents are from Cameroon, and the albino boy found on E 26__th__ Street, two blocks from home...._

He flipped through the pages to the albino boy on the tire swing.

_Nineteen kids... the author is right—none of them look alike, but all of them died the same way... no happy endings to their stories...._

John turned the page to see how the author ended her story.

_Damn... _

He began to laugh, a loud barking guffaw that startled a passing pair of Japanese tourists laden with Twelfth Street tote bags. John flashed them a toothy grin then he waved his book under their noses.

"We got him," he told them. "You hear that? This fucker is going down!"

The couple exchanged worried glances before backing away from him. John ignored their fear as he tucked the book back under his arm and hurried after Otten and Fontana.

Interview Room One  
Manhattan SVU  
12 July

It took all of Munch's persuasive powers to get the SVU detectives into the interview room. Fontana, who had followed Munch and Otten back to the house, took a position by the outside window with the worst view of the case folders, but the best view of Otten. Elliot and Olivia glanced at the case summaries on the table while Fin and Couch hung back by the door, neither of them looking happy about participating.

John positioned himself at the head of the table with the book tucked under his arm and Otten at his side.

_My hunch, my case... and thank you for ceding it to me without being nasty about it...._

He cleared his throat to get everyone's attention.

"I asked you here so I could explain what Otten and I found."

"Don't care what you're asking," Fin told him. "Cap'n said to ignore you and that's what we ought to be doing."

John bristled at his ex-partner's harsh words.

_You aren't ignoring me because of Cragen... you're ignoring me over some trumped-up slight to your dignity that I didn't even make...._

"While you've been busy ignoring us," he replied, "Otten and I dug up nineteen cold cases with similar MOs and similar victims."

He held the picture book up for everyone to see.

"This book's illustrations match our nineteen victims and they are in the same order as their murders were committed. We're both certain the killer used it as a guide when choosing his victims."

To his extreme gratification, even Fin's eyebrows raised at that bit of news. Elliot waved his hand at the nineteen case folders then pointed John.

"You're saying a serial killer has been working Manhattan for the past...."

He glanced at the first folder.

"... thirteen years and no one noticed?"

"Yes," Otten answered him. "He got away with it because of the range of victims he chose. When we work a case, we check the databases for the MO, gender, age, and ethnic type that matches our victim. Too broad a search and we get useless hits. Too narrow a search and we miss what we need."

Everyone, from Fin to Fontana, nodded in agreement.

"The databases help us," she continued, "until we get a perpetrator who jumps the parameters and makes his own pattern. Then it doesn't matter what database we use, we're off the map and the computers are useless."

Fontana gave her a sly, slightly goofy smile.

"They can't program serendipity into a database—good thing, or we'd all be out of a job."

His quip got a few chuckles. John used the break to reclaim the floor from Otten.

"And that is the situation we're in right now. I'll bet the primary on this case—"

He pointed to Liang Fei, the Chinese victim.

"—checked for similar crimes and found nothing because he or she searched on 'Asian' and 'male' when the perp's previous victims were boys and girls of Arab and European descent. When nothing came of the search, the primary assumed the case was unique. Repeat a dozen more times and you know how the killer stayed under the radar."

John placed the picture book at the end of the case folders.

"This guy is _sui generis_," John told everyone, "unique, a one-off. If it weren't for the nineteen victims, this would be exciting."

He ignored their stares.

_Well, it would...._

The stares shifted to glances from one detective to another as each tried to judge how the others were taking John's news. At his side, Otten held her expression blank as she observed their reactions. From the window, Fontana frowned as though puzzled by everyone present.

Finally, Fin shook his head slightly at Couch. Olivia raised an eyebrow at Elliot and he shrugged in reply. Her tight-lipped smile warned John that she did not care for her partner's silent response.

Olivia turned back to John, the tight smile now aimed at him.

"Okay, so you have a serial killer. Now what?"

"It's simple. We go after him."

"'We' being you and Judith, or 'we' being all of us?"

Olivia's words and the four flat stares aimed at him finally clued John in.

_Even if they want to help us—and Fin and Couch don't—they're going to keep ignoring us.... _

Otten made a _tsk _sound then took a step forward.

"We'll be presenting this" she told the group, "to Captain Cragen tomorrow morning. Once he signs off on it, you'll get on board—right?"

Olivia did not check with anyone else before answering.

"If Cragen assigns us, we'll work it. Right now, we're busy covering Fred and Tammy's cases and handling everything you two aren't doing...."

Elliot cut in.

"... and ducking Cragen. Trust me—you're better off in here."

"And," Fin added, "we're better off out there."

He left the interview room. Couch followed without a glance at either John or Otten. Olivia mouthed, "Sorry, guys," and left after them. Elliot stayed a second longer to give John a slow wink then he followed his partner out, shutting the door behind him.

In the mirrored glass, Otten's reflection shrank into itself as her shoulders slumped forward.

_I know exactly how she feels... we just got kicked in the teeth four times over..._

To the right of Otten's reflection, Fontana's image shook its head.

"This unit is falling apart like a cheap suit," he told them. "Makes me glad I got transferred to Manhattan Homicide."

He stepped up to the table and pointed at the picture book.

"Can I assume there's something in this book besides nineteen drawings of your victims?"

Otten spun around and made a grab for the book. John snatched it out of her reach.

_This isn't as good as telling everyone... but it will do...._

"If you two hadn't been so busy planning strategy," he told them, "you'd have noticed the one thing we didn't do with this book."

He waited a moment, just to heighten the suspense, then John laid the book open on the table.

"We didn't read the ending."

The right-hand illustration of the opened book showed all the children playing a circle game like the one on the book's cover. Both detectives glanced at it then John saw them turn their attention to the opposite drawing.

_A little African-American girl in a long-sleeved red turtleneck and blue jeans on a city street... she is jumping Double-Dutch, the picture showing only her and the two ropes spinning around her... her 'unalikeness' is that she has light-colored patches on her face and hands...._

"'Amanda has vitiligo,'" he read aloud. "'Some of the pigment that makes her one color all over is missing from her skin. Like Robbie, she has to be careful when playing in the sun, but that does not stop Amanda from being the best Double-Dutch jumper on her street.'"

Both detectives rocked back on their heels in unison, but it was Otten spoke first.

"Our collector doesn't have the complete set."

"No, he doesn't," John agreed. "Our serial killer is searching Manhattan for the one piece missing from his collection...."

"... but we know he's looking and we know what he's looking for," Fontana said.

"Right," John told him, his grin showing his glee at the thought. "So we'll be making this a two-pronged attack. We'll go through the case data looking for a specific suspect, and we'll also lay a trap for him."

John reached for the legal pad he had used earlier.

"Fontana, you in with us?"

He checked his watch. "Yeah, but only until twelve or so. I've got to be at Pearson Place at 8 a.m."

John handed him the picture book.

"Then you get copy machine duty. Get two color copies of each page and two of each case summary."

The next forty minutes were spent compiling the report for Cragen. Fontana copied the book and the case summaries, and Otten and John collated them, matching each illustration with the appropriate summary and victim photo. When that task was done, the three of them sat down at the table. Otten created a spreadsheet on the laptop to track the data while John and Fontana, his reading glasses in place, began combing the cases files, beginning with Judy May and Michael Doyle, the first two victims.

_English and Irish.... in the book, the English girl is having a tea party with her stuffed animals while the Irish boy is playing street soccer... in real life...._

"Primary on the May case was Alvarez, Manhattan Homicide." John recited from the summary. "Mother and daughter were clothes-shopping after lunch when Judy disappeared on February 6th, 1994. Father was at work and not a suspect. No other suspects listed. Body was found in a hedge in Tompkins Square Park early the next morning by a jogger. COD, broken neck."

Otten entered that info into the spreadsheet.

"Alvarez retired right after I transferred in," Fontana noted. "I think he now lives in New Jersey."

"Michael Doyle, age eight. Primary was Wright, Midtown North," he continued. "The boy failed to come home from school on May 10th, 1994. Mother and father both at work; grandmother at home reported him missing three hours later. One of his classmates saw him talking to a man in blue jeans and a white t-shirt two blocks from his apartment—witness thinks the man had light brown hair, but no other details provided. No suspects listed. Body found 6:30 a.m. the next morning by the sexton at St. Alban's Episcopal Church while he was opening up. COD, strangulation."

Otten entered that data then said, "Both have about the same time period between disappearing and their bodies being found."

John nodded as he reached for the next summary. "Put that under 'commonality'. We'll see if it holds true for the other cases."

While John read through the third case summary, Fontana compiled a list of names and case numbers to take to Pearson Place.

"These last two are probably still at Evidence Control at One P.P.," he noted. "If they are, I'll get them sent over, too."

Thanks," John replied. "You heading out?"

"In a few minutes."

Just then, the door opened and Stabler entered.

"Everyone's gone home," he said. "You guys want some help?"

John lowered the folder he was reading, and turned to peer at Elliot.

"Sure you want to risk it?"

Elliot shucked off his jacket and tossed it on top of a file cabinet. The wry smile on his face and the dry chuckle that accompanied it held no humor.

"I'm past caring what Cragen thinks," he replied. "So is Liv, but she's lead, so she thinks she should set a good example."

Otten paused with her fingers still on the laptop's keyboard.

"How about Fin and Couch?" she asked.

Elliot squared his shoulders as though bracing himself against the response to his next words.

"'No way in Hell,' was what Fin said. Couch was a little more polite."

John dropped his gaze to the case folder in front of him and winced at Elliot's bluntness.

_I shouldn't be surprised... I'm the one who told Fin off once and for all.... can't expect him to forget what I said... or forgive it...._

"Hey, Judith—you okay?"

Fontana's question drew John's attention to Otten, who was staring at the laptop with the same intensity he had given his folder. Her expression was rigidly blank, but her eyes were moist.

"I'm fine."

Her brittle reply did not suit Fontana. He folded his glasses and the list then put both in his jacket pocket before walking around the table to her.

"I have to leave now," he said, putting a hand gently on her shoulder. "Want to walk me out?"

She blinked rapidly, her gaze flicking around, although she refused to meet the curious looks everyone else aimed at her. Finally, she nodded and rose from her chair. Fontana kept his hand on her shoulder as he guided her from the room.

As soon as they had cleared the door, Elliot placed his hands on the table and leaned over John, putting his face on a level with the older detective's.

"What the hell?"

John ran through every interaction he had seen between Otten and Fontana.

_Might as well call it what it is...._

"Looks like detectives in love," he told Elliot. "A rare phenomenon, but not unheard of."

"You're kidding?"

"Personally, I blame it on Fontana's ties. Bright patterns, busy colors—Otten is helpless before them."

John tipped his head and raised an eyebrow at Elliot. "Do you think a rainbow paisley would help me get chicks?"

The look of disgust on Elliot's face as he drew back made the question worth asking.

"Don't make me think about you wearing Fontana's ties," he told John. "Talk about stomach-churning."

"Fine. Be that way."

John pointed at the laptop.

"You type. I'll read."

As soon as Elliot was in place, John began to read from the case folder.

"Marika Bourantas, age six, went missing the evening of Aug 28th, 1994; her big sister got distracted while watching her play on their stoop and didn't see her wander off. Her body was found March 3rd, 1995 under some debris in an abandoned building near the Dykeman Marina. The homeless squatting there said they had noticed a smell a few months earlier, but it went away when the weather got cold."

Elliot snorted that comment. "Talk about the concern of the unconcerned."

"Yeah, right. Cause of death was ruled strangulation; the hyoid bone was misshapen as though pressure had been applied to the throat."

Elliot nodded. "That bone doesn't harden up until maturity. I remember Rogers telling me that not long after I joined the unit."

"Odd facts," John replied, "are one of the perks of working here. Anyway, Marika's mother was visiting her relatives in Florida and her father was at home when his daughter went missing. None of the family were suspects. Primary was Profacci."

John closed that folder and set it aside to reach for another.

"Tindra Berge," he read, pronouncing the last name with two syllables. "She was seven years old when she disappeared from the school play yard after class on the 29th of October, 1994. Parents were having a custody dispute, so Mom and Dad accused each other of taking her. Both had alibis. The play yard monitor said the side walk was busy that time of day and the gate leading to it was not locked. Tindra's body was found a week later, November 5th, off the Harlem River Drive near the Cross-Bronx Expressway. Primary was Meister, 33rd Precinct."

John looked up from his folder. "All the dump sites are accessible by car—drive up, dump the body, drive off. Quick, easy, doesn't attract attention."

Elliot entered John's comment.

"Noted," he said. "Who's next?"

Office of Captain Donald Cragen  
Manhattan SVU  
13 July

Cragen ignored the two detectives standing at attention on the other side of his desk.

_Both in need of a good night's sleep—the crib isn't the Hilton by any means... both in fresh clothes and as neatly groomed as the locker room permits... obviously trying for a good impression... Yes, John—I see you shifting your weight from one leg to the other... I know I'm making you stand instead of inviting you and Judith to sit... if you were Catholic, I'd suggest offering it up as penance for past sins... since you aren't, I suggest offering it up as penance for present ones...._

He paged through their presentation a second time.

_I never expected this... I hoped you two might close one case... but finding a serial killer with nineteen victims? No way...._

He rested his gaze on the pages showing the two African illustrations and their related cases.

_This is overkill... we bring this guy in and the promotions committee can't ignore me... I might as well buy my uniform insignia today...._

Rather than show his glee, he raised his head and frowned at Munch and Otten.

"How do you plan to proceed with this?"

He listened as Munch described a standard approach.

_Contact all the primaries... match details to find similarities... yeah—all SOP...._

Munch's idea to spring a trap using a child with vitiligo surprised him. Cragen flipped again to her illustration as Munch sketched out the plan.

"So," he said, "you want to place something where this hump will see it—a newspaper article, a blurb on a web page—something like that?"

Munch nodded. "I'm not sure of how yet, but we've been discussing...."

His sentence trailed off when Cragen picked up his phone and dialed a number.

"Tullia? Hi, it's Don. Just a quick question for a case we're working—you know anyone at the Vitiligo Association? You do? Good."

He jotted a name and number on his scrap pad.

"Thanks, Tullia. I'll call you later."

He closed his phone before handing the note to Munch.

"Here's your contact. Let me know if you need anything else."

He watched the two of them trade puzzled glances.

"Well? Why are you still here? Shouldn't you be hunting down your serial killer?"

Otten swallowed hard before speaking.

"Sir, that would be easier if we had our shields and ID cards."

Cragen stifled a smile.

_No mention of weapons... nice touch, Otten...._

He spun his chair around and retrieved their shield cases and weapons from the locked drawer in his credenza. Both pocketed their shields before reaching for their weapons. Otten checked the safety on her Glock then she slid it into her jacket pocket. John grasped his by the muzzle and held it at his side as he resumed his rigid but lopsided stance.

"You're no longer restricted to the interview room," Cragen told them. "Use it as your incidence room. Who's primary on this?"

Munch jerked his hand up.

"You may requisition supplies, equipment, and manpower as needed. The two of you are still required to remain in each other's presence unless the demands of this case prevent your doing so. Are there any other questions?"

John nodded. "Who's available to use?"

Cragen allowed some irritation to fog his voice.

_Don't think I've started liking you again... you've done good work, but you haven't caught this guy... you haven't proved you won't turn on each other when the pressure heats up...._

"No one from your shift—at least, not until Friday. Greg gets back tomorrow; you can have him and Jason. Today, you're on your own—unless you can pry Fontana away from Lt. Van Buren again."

He didn't wait for any response, although he did note Otten's blushing.

_Damn it, Judith... I thought you had some class...._

"Any other questions?"

Both Munch and Otten shook their heads.

"I'll want regular updates. Leave me messages if you can't reach me. Dismissed."

He waited until the door closed behind him before breaking out in a huge grin.

_Man... I can see those oak leaves now... I got to call Andrew and tell him the news....._


	7. Slogging Through The Preliminaries

A/N: This is an alternate universe story and it does not Real Life police procedures. Any procedures or policies used in this story have been modified to suit the needs of the plot.

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
13 July

As soon as they had left Cragen's office, John said one word: "Holster." Otten's

response was to turn left and head for the locker room.

_I don't like guns—to be truthful, I hate them, but that empty feeling under my armpit was beginning to get to me...._

He met up with Otten by the elevator. The subtle bulge on her left side showed she again was strapped.

"I never thought," he told her during the ride to their floor, "that I'd miss my desk, but I can't wait to sit down in that superannuated piece of crap they laughingly refer to as an 'office chair' and be at my desk again."

Otten nodded in agreement, but her smile quickly faded.

_Oh, yeah... I forgot about who sits across from both our desks... maybe I should get a larger photo of JFK to block my view of pissed-off ex-partner...._

Back at the squadroom, Howie's shift greeted them with seven flat, cold stares. Even the uniforms eyed them warily.

_Everyone's wondered who we'll attack next... or if our crappy luck will rub off on them...._

Otten squared her shoulders. She kept her gaze focused on the interview room as she crossed the squadroom. No one paid attention to her. The stern expressions all aimed his way crystallized John's resolve.

_Time to put this to bed...._

He turned away from Otten's path to head for Brewster's desk. At his approach, Sue Lynde pushed her chair free of her desk and readied herself to jump to her partner's aid. Brewster settled for spinning around to face Munch.

"Detective Brewster," John asked, "may I address your shift?"

Howie shrugged. In a voice pitched so that only John and Sue could hear, he said, "Try not to get yourself lynched."

John pursed his lips and stared down at Brewster.

_Thanks, Howie... I appreciate your confidence in me...._

He then raised his head and looked at each of other five detectives.

"I want to apologize for the turmoil I caused," he told all of them. "I'm to blame for most of it. The part that was Otten's—well, I provoked her, so it's wasn't her fault."

He turned to Brewster.

"You were right to stop our fight. My apologies for slugging you. It won't happen again."

No one said anything in reply. The force of the silence propelled John toward the interview room, where Otten was holding the door open for him. He was almost there when Howie called out.

"Hey, Munch—you know you hit like a girl?"

John spun around. The grin on Howie's face was enough to assure him of forgiveness, especially when the expressions of Sue and the other detectives also softened. John flexed his right hand then he rubbed its knuckles with his left as though they still hurt.

"And you felt like a brick wall. You need to stop working out and start eating more doughnuts."

He turned back to the interview door.

_Always leave them laughing... that way, they're too distracted to chase you...._

Once the interview room door swung shut behind them, Otten's reaction was more shocked than amused.

"You didn't have to do that," she told him.

"Actually," he told her, "I did. Not only is it required by my occasionally shaky beliefs, but that was a practice run for later. If we want to work at our desks in peace, then I need to make peace with our shift."

"You really think we can win Fin and Couch back?"

_Not Fin... I think he's a lost cause...._

"You leave Couch to me. What's first on our agenda?"

Otten glanced around the interview room.

"I'd say incidence room stuff: another table for the evidence boxes, a white board—"

John grabbed a legal pad and made some notes. "I'll get Reyes moving on the supplies. You locate those primaries so we can start talking to them about assuming their cases."

"Don't you want to go through the evidence first?"

"Yes, but I don't know when it's going to arrive. I do know that we will piss off nineteen detectives if we can't convince them to hand their cases over to us before we close them."

Otten sat down and pulled the laptop to her.

"According to Joe, at least one is retired."

"Okay—call it eighteen pissed-off detectives. Either way, if we want cooperation, we have to schmooze them. If that doesn't work, we get Cragen to—"

The scornful glare that Otten shot him stopped his sentence in its tracks.

"Okay, I know—there's no help there. Better dust off your kiss-up skills; we're going to need them."

The evidence, brought in by two men with hand trucks, was delivered at 11:47 a.m. while John and Otten were eating Szechuan chicken take-out. John had the men stack the plastic bins on the table that Ted Reyes had arranged for them.

"Okay," he said as soon as the men and their hand trucks were gone, "we have evidence for seventeen of the cases."

He pointed at the two one-way windows, both now covered with cases summaries taped to their surfaces.

_We left a small gap for Cragen to check on us... hope he appreciates it...._

"We have cases summaries matched to their illustrations, and we have primary contact info."

He indicated the white board that now stood before the file cabinets. On it, Otten had listed the nineteen cases and their detectives by current assignment.

John ran through the list.

_Three are retired: Alvarez to New Jersey, Brown to Arizona, and Wilton to Hawaii—good luck getting airfare out of Cragen... hey—Lennie worked the Bolivian girl... damn shame we can't discuss it with him... Curtis was with him then, and he's retired, so that case is available... Profaci—why do I know that name? He's in Schenectady, but Otten didn't mark him 'retired'... everyone else is still on the job, either at precinct homicide squads or Manhattan Homicide—except for Clark at Major Case... his victim was the Saudi boy... maybe that kid's family were diplomats..._.

"Not bad," John noted, "not bad at all. What about using photos of Nila to create our bait?"

"Dante said he'll drop them off this evening. We're meeting with Mark Dill tomorrow at 8:30 so he can start manipulating the photos to match the Amanda illustration. I haven't heard back yet from Trudy Kimpton at the Vitiligo Foundation."

"Speaking of Cragen's contact," John asked her, "any idea who Tullia is?"

"Nope. Maybe it's his pet name for Beale."

As soon as he finished strangling, John pointed at Otten.

"Don't do that. Picturing Don and Beale together isn't good for my digestion."

A low chuckle was her only response. John turned his attention back to the evidence boxes.

_Only murder police eat lunch before handling homicide evidence... we'll take into account the primary's theory of the crime, but we'll look at all the evidence with fresh eyes... see if anything was overlooked or misinterpreted.... _

"I'll sort," he told Otten. "You record."

Both he and Otten pulled on Latex gloves. Otten took up a legal pad and pen while John rummaged through the first plastic bin. He selected three large envelopes, all labeled "94-H-0161: May, J/Alvarez," and spread their contents on the empty table.

_Crime scene photos... the clothing May was wearing: floral print t-shirt, blue jeans, white cotton underwear, white wool socks, pink sneakers... autopsy and lab reports—like all the others, no signs of sexual attack—no DNA, no blood, no genital trauma...._

"Whoever took her and the rest of them," John noted, "only wanted to kill, not rape."

"Maybe he didn't plan to kill her. Maybe he only wanted to talk to her, show her the drawing in the book. When he figured out she would tell on him, that's when he decided to kill her."

John shook his head at Otten's theory.

"That argues for a perp who is a bit slow on the uptake. I doubt such a person could do a long string of murders without slipping up."

He handed Otten the autopsy report while he read through the lab results. When they both were finished reading, they switched reports.

"No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses," Otten said. "No signs of a struggle at the store where she was shopping, which means she probably went willingly. According to the autopsy, she didn't fight back when her neck was snapped—no defensive wounds, nothing under her fingernails."

John looked over the crime scene photos again.

"And no signs of a struggle at the crime scene so she probably was killed elsewhere. We'll need a map to pinpoint the dump sites and the snatch sites—a map with lots of colored pins and string. Maybe, once we mark all those points, we'll get an idea of where he killed them."

"I'll ask Reyes for a map. Want some tea?"

"Definitely."

While Otten ran errands, John held up a photo showing m May's body lying between the low wrought iron fence by the sidewalk and the bare trunks of the hedge inside that fence.

_Fully clothed, missing only her tan winter coat and pink knit cap... perp must have taken her inside—someplace too warm for a coat... maybe he didn't bother to put it back on her before dumping her body... wonder if Alvarez had the local clothing banks checked for a girl's winter coat, size seven... or any nearby Dumpsters...._

"I hate working child murders," he muttered.

_They pervert the order of things... they suck the soul out of you—especially when you can't close them...._

The memory of Tim Bayliss, his trench coat soaked from the steady rain falling on his crime scene, as he stared down at the equally soaked body of Adena Watson, blocked out John's view of Judy May.

_Case in point... that case went cold, but Tim never managed to put it aside... Adena Watson haunted him for years... until Luke Ryland took her place in Tim's nightmares.... don't think about Luke Ryland...._

Otten returned with a rolled map under her arm and a steaming mug in each hand. She set John's tea on the table before him then she started pinning the map to the last bit of vacant wall.

_Maybe, if I tell the story of Adena Watson, Bayliss will go back to whatever synapse I'd stuffed him and stay there... I don't want him in my head... he brings with him memories I don't like to face...._

John picked up his mug and fiddled with the tea bag.

"You once said," he told Otten, "that newbie murder police should never be given red balls—"

Otten glanced over her shoulder at him.

"I don't think I worded it that way."

"Forgive me for using Charm City jargon; I'm sure you can figure it out. Anyway, I once worked with a detective named Bayliss. His first case as primary was a young girl found raped and murdered behind a row house in her neighborhood. Bayliss was still soaking wet behind his ears and he lost control of the investigation. He let the press and the brass walk all over the crime scene, and it took him days to figure out what he should have known immediately. When he finally got a suspect in the box, he couldn't get the confession. No matter what he did, it was too little, too late, and the case went cold. That little girl and how he failed her haunted him for years."

John shook his head slowly, knowing that Otten would take it as sorrow over Bayliss' predicament.

_I'm really shaking Bayliss back into long-term memory... telling him to stay there and never come back...._

Otten had folded her arms and leaned against the map to listen while he spoke.

"Children are supposed to grow up and create the future," she mused. "When they die, the future dies with them—not only for the family, but for all of us."

The sadness in her words and voice tightened John's throat. He had to gulp some tea before he could respond.

"That's true, very poetic and true. However, if we dwell on the maudlin, we'll end up like Bayliss. What say we try to stick with the cases and not the emotions?"

Otten straightened and set both hands on her hips.

"You started it."

"And I'm ending it."

John swept the May evidence aside and snatched the next set of folders from the plastic bin.

"Case number 94-H-0697. Michael Doyle, primary Wright from Midtown North. We have photos of the crime scene at St. Alban's Episcopal Church, a pair of khaki pants, size eight...."

They were examining the evidence from the eleventh case, 97-H-744: Jackson, A/Holtz, when Otten's phone rang.

"Otten... Ms Kimpton, I'm glad you returned my call."

John continued to skim through the autopsy report while listening to Otten explain what they wanted from her and the Vitiligo Foundation.

"Yes, a faked article on your website. We'll supply the material—no, I can assure you that no real children will be used. We're having our lab do the artwork—yes, we'll run the article past you for your input."

The long pause while she listened to Trudy Kimpton's response drew John from his reading. Otten was intent on the call, her gaze focused on the pad of paper before her as she took notes. As John watched, she made some vehement markings on the pad then held it up for him to read.

"_'Big problem with cost—can we cover changing website?'... I don't know how much it costs to put something on a website... Cragen didn't say anything about spending money...._

He mouthed the words "How much?" and waited for Otten to relay the question.

"One thousand?... yes, I realize you need to keep the integrity of your design, but we only need a link from your home page that points to... I understand the need to maintain your brand... yes, I know—I work with groups that have the same concerns—"

She rolled her eyes before putting her hand over her cell phone's microphone.

"Can we cover this?"

John choked on the question.

_Cover it? I've got $37 in my wallet so you'd better have $963 in yours... on the other hand, if the bait never gets in the water, it can't catch our fish...._

"Tell her not to worry," he told Otten. "We'll find a way—even if I have to strip Cragen and hock his suit."

Otten's eyes went wide, but she nodded.

"Ms Kimpton, I just got word from the case primary. He said there is no problem with us covering the cost of this project... I truly appreciate your assistance...."

John tuned out the butt-kissing.

_One thousand bucks... I'll try Cragen, but we may have to pass the hat—I wonder if Fontana's good for a donation? If not, maybe Robbery will help us pick some pockets...._

Otten finally closed her phone.

"Do web pages really cost that much?" she asked.

John snorted at the question.

"Damned if I know. Seems steep, but it doesn't matter now. We got permission to post our bait and that's all we need."

Otten leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.

"We're set to meet with her and her web master at 2 p.m. tomorrow. She didn't say 'cash on the barrel' so we should be able to dance around that."

"Let's worry about it later," he replied. "Right now, we need to get through this evidence."

They were reviewing the evidence from case #00-H-0581:Epoo, W/Brown when Fontana came in with another plastic bin in his arms.

"I was right," he announced as he set it next to the other bins. "Manhattan Property still had these two cases. Turns out one of them belongs to Jay Adams on our shift. I talked to him, and he's okay with you taking it over."

John set aside the lab report he had been reading.

"Good. How hard did you have to twist his arm?"

"Didn't have to," Fontana replied. "He said the victim's photos gave him the creeps."

Both John and Otten turn their attention to the posted summary for Adams' case.

_Joshua Parkinson, the one with Down Syndrome...._

"Yeah," Fontana confirmed. "Jay doesn't fake political correctness too well. Drives the lieutenant nuts. You two getting anywhere?"

Otten waved her hand at the additions to the interview room. "We're working our way through the preliminaries. You?"

Fontana's shrug was meant to answer her question. When Otten put down the photo she was examining and stood up, John smiled to himself.

_She not only snores, she never gives up... someone really should warn you...._

"Joe, how are you doing?" she repeated, her emphasis on the word 'you.'

Fontana shrugged again, this time using his hands and shoulders.

"It wasn't fun. That Skoda—I'd rather face a nutjob on angel dust with a chainsaw."

John's chuckle echoed Otten's laugh. Fontana glanced at his watch, a move that displayed his onyx cufflink and an alligator leather band.

"I'm supposed to shuffle paper for the next eight hours—lieutenant's orders. Why don't I stop by here after shift?"

Otten let out a long sigh.

"Could you make it a phone call? We've got to be in Queens first thing tomorrow, and we didn't get much sleep last night."

"A phone call it is."

He gave Otten a big smile, said, "See ya" and left before she could respond. John checked out Otten's reaction to the abrupt departure.

_Knit brows and a frown... definitely disappointed...._

"Looks like the bloom is fading from your romance," he noted as she resumed her seat at the table.

"More likely Joe has heard all the questions he can stand for one day," she replied. "I felt that way after my psych review for the Lau shoot."

She twisted in her seat and peered at him.

"You ever been put through that wringer?"

John forced himself to extend his arm at a normal speed and pick up the photo Otten had been examining before Fontana arrived. The small body in the photo, however, kept morphing to someone taller and older and paler.

_... someone with a bullet hole in his head... someone I don't want to think about... change the subject... get her mind off this one—now...._

"In twenty minutes," he said, "we have our shift meeting, which will feature me trying to make nice with everybody. How about I concentrate on that and you push pins into Radio City Music Hall and 407 W 147th Street?"

Otten raised an eyebrow, but she did as requested. The two pins, with a thin string to connect them, marked the disappearance location and dump site that comprised the crime scene for the murder of Willie Epoo, the Inuit victim. They joined thirteen other pairs of pins with strings that criss-crossed Manhattan.

_They tell us nothing... we could play cat's cradle and get a better pattern... how about we focus on that and let the lat e Gordon Pratt get lost in my memory with Bayliss?_

John turned toward the map and hummed for a moment.

"Furthest south he snatched anyone is Chinatown. Maybe he lives in the Financial District and doesn't want to dirty his own nest."

"But he dumped the Bolivian girl in Battery Park City," she replied, her index finger flicking a pin poked into Rector Place.

John leaned back and pointed at the map. "Once we go through all the evidence, we should recheck the photos for signs of a rush job. If he was about to be caught with a victim, he may have dumped the body close to home."

"If that's the case," Otten said, "he might have hung around that investigation, playing the bystander, so he could see if he had been seen with the body."

Outside the open door to the interview room, people began to drift toward Cragen's office. John noticed their movement and rose to his feet.

"That happens more often than not," he replied. "Shift meeting—you ready?"

The shift meeting was led by Cragen. John overheard Amelia asking her partner who the guy in the expensive suit was. Dan's muffled snicker at the joke was shared by those nearby.

_I wonder if Don knows how much respect he has lost... it's not only us—it's Howie's shift, too...._

Cragen ran through the newest cases: a suspected molestation by a step-father being worked by Tutuola and Sofarelli...

_... they win the award for the partner pairing with the most syllables...._

... two rapes, one being worked by Stabler and Benson, one by Rout and Lehman on Howie's shift, and an investigation of a hidden camera found in the dressing room of Bambini Boutique, a children's clothier on Madison Avenue. Amelia Grey, the primary on that case, gave everyone the details.

"Have you checked their other locations for cameras?" Olivia asked.

"Yes, and we found the wiring for a camera at their Manhasset store. Now, we're checking all contractors and their subs for work done on both buildings during the past year."

She handed Olivia a sheet of paper.

"Here's four subs that have to be contacted after five p.m. Can you handle it and get me the results?"

Olivia took the sheet, but her frown told John she was weighing the calls against her depleted shift.

_Maybe Otten and I can take a couple while we hit our cases' primaries tonight... can't hurt to offer...._

Last on the agenda was the serial killer. Cragen gave a brief overview then John answered a few questions.

"We'll be meeting with the primaries tonight and tomorrow," John told the group, "to ask them to release their cases to us. Once that's accomplished, we'll shift into high gear on this."

"Greg and Jason will work with them," Cragen told Howie. "Olivia, when the new detectives get here Friday, they'll also be assigned to this."

Brewster and Benson nodded, after which Cragen ended the shift meeting. As he headed back to his office, John waved Otten to his side.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No, but so what?" was her glum reply.

Together, they went over to Olivia's desk, where she, Elliot, Fin, and Couch had gathered.

"You mind if I say something to you guys?" John asked.

"Depends," she replied. "Cragen told me you two are now on work-release, but he didn't say anything about associating with you."

John gritted his teeth at her allusion to parole.

"You do know," he told her, "that a show of remorse helps at parole hearings."

Fin muttered something, but only the words "faking it" reached John's ears.

_Think whatever you want... I'm not doing this solely to get me out of trouble...._

"I want to apologize for the turmoil I caused," he said, using the same opening that had worked with Howie's shift. "I deliberately provoked Otten because I thought she was brought in to take my place. I was completely out of line, and I probably should be on unpaid leave right now instead of here."

He paused to judge their reaction. Olivia's half-smile showed empathy while Elliot's direct gaze and tilted head told John he was willing to forgive.

_Fin is completely closed off—arms folded, scowl firmly in place... no forgiveness there... Couch is facing me, but he's giving Otten his attention... he may believe me, but he wants to hear something from her before reacting...._

He heard Otten's soft sigh, a sign she had picked up the same message from her partner. She stepped in front of John and cleared her throat.

"It's not all Munch's fault," she told them. "I could have ignored him, but I let him get under my skin. I should have acted more professionally and I apologize to you for not doing so."

She then looked straight at Couch.

"I can't prove it any more, but I do know better than to attack my partner. You were right to try and stop our fight; I shouldn't have fought back."

John watched as everyone's attention slid over to Sofarelli.

_Olivia's going cross-eyed trying to see both Otten and Couch at the same time...._

Couch pursed his lips as though he were checking his partner's apology for poison then he nodded.

"Like I told Elliot," he said, "I'm glad you know that defensive move. Why don't we talk about this later, before the shift is over?"

Otten's blank expression held while she agreed.

_Yeah, it's not much... if Couch really accepted her apology, he'd be suggesting beer or food... he's not willing to sup with her yet, but at least he'll talk... it could be worse... he could be ignoring her like Fin is ignoring me...._

A few seconds of silence followed, which finally was broken by Olivia.

"Okay," she said, her voice louder than necessary, "let's call this water under the bridge so we all can get to work."

The chorus of agreement signaled more relief that an awkward moment was over than acceptance of either apology. John tried not to show his disappointment as the four detectives turned to their own cases.

_At least they're willing to give us another chance... that's enough... the rest will come—maybe not from Fin... not much I can do about that...._

Next to him, Otten's tight smile echoed the one on his own face.

"Could be worse, Otten," he told her. "We could be facing the S/MRC. Apologies go nowhere with them."

"Yeah, but you only have to face the Review Committee once. We're here every day."

John turned toward the interview room. "Small steps also reach the goal; they just take longer. Let's leave those last five cases for later and go see some detectives."

Midtown North  
Detective Squadroom  
13 July

Detective Stanley Schmidt offered Judith Otten the chair by his desk.

"Want some coffee? It's awful, but you probably know that from your own squad's brew."

Judith shook her head.

_I'm sure it is... just like there isn't much difference between this room and ours... same green paint, same gray metal desks... almost the same detectives, too—Stan Schmidt is tall and lanky with hair gone gray... Conners, his partner is black and dressed for the street... I'm glad he shaves his head... otherwise, I'd start looking around for my own _dopplegänger_...._

"Smart choice. Now, what can I do for you?"

"Back in 1997," she told Schmidt, "you worked the murder of Vanitaben Vaghela, a seven-year-old girl whose body was found in a trash bin near the Pond in Central Park. She was last seen at her parents' apartment on West Forty-eighth two days before."

Conners muttered something about that being before his time. Judith waited for Schmidt to acknowledge his case.

"Yeah, yeah—I remember that one," Schmidt replied. "I'd been here less than a year. It was winter, bitter cold and snowing. Shivers, my partner then, hated the cold because it made everyone crack jokes about his name."

"I can see why."

"Yeah. Why you asking about her?"

Judith gave him her most sincere smile. "We found some more recent child murders with similar MOs. If you're not working this, my partner and I would like to add to ours—see if we can work them together."

Schmidt raised his arms as though he wanted to hug her.

"No problem. Glad to get it off my mind. There's nothing like a dead kid to haunt you when everyone but you is snoring. Want the files?"

Ten minutes later, Judith was out the door with the signed release form and a manila folder containing Schmidt's notes and reports.

_One down... nineteen to go... wonder if Munch is having this easy a time...._

Tenth Precinct  
Detective Squadroom  
14 July

_I should have stuck Otten with this one... not only is parking ridiculous, but their window AC isn't working...._

Jack Holtz was the senior detective at the Tenth.

_More like 'worn out' than 'senior'... wispy gray hair, sallow dry skin, sunken eyes... his hands shake—just a little, hardly noticeable... but enough to make me wonder why he's still on-duty...._

"Aroha Jackson, you say? How long ago was that?"

"Ten years," John repeated patiently. "September of 1997. Her body was found on Eighth Avenue under a parked car between West Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth. Cause of death was strangulation."

When Holtz did not react, he add, "She was from New Zealand; her parents were grad students at the Fashion Institute. The day she went missing, they were attending a party for foreign students on campus."

Holtz's dark brown eyes stared blearily for several seconds then they lit up.

"Oh, yes. I remember thinking that little girl probably wanted to play outside and not be stuck indoors on such a pretty day. When we found her the next morning, her parents were devastated."

Holtz opened a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. He placed it on the blotter before him and stared at it.

"You from Cold Cases?" he asked, his gaze still on the folder.

"Manhattan SVU. We're working several child murders. Yours matches their MO."

"You want this one?"

The growl in his voice warned John to be very deferential.

"If you'll release it, yes—but you're the primary. It's your decision."

Holtz continued to glare at the folder.

"Six weeks ago, I'd have told you to fuck off. No one snakes my cases."

Without raising his head and without meeting John's gaze, Holtz held the file out for him to take. After John had it in his hands, Holtz kept his arm extended so John could see how badly it trembled.

"Weak as a puppy," he said as he lowered his arm. "Small cell cancer. They tell me that, even with treatment, I've got maybe six months. In eight more days, I'll retire with my thirty years—retire and go home to die. Things like that humble a man."

He took a business card from a holder on his desk, and wrote his number on it before handing it to John.

"You let me know when you get the son-of-a-bitch. You call me at home or at the hospital—if you have to, you go tell it to my headstone. I don't care as long as you let me know you got that little girl's killer."

Holtz then placed both hands on the edge of his desk. He leaned forward and pushed himself upright. Without another word, he walked slowly across the squadroom and out the hallway door.

John rose to his feet as he left.

_Holtz, I'd rather be told to fuck off... and yes—I'll let you know...._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
Upstairs Lounge  
13 July

Munch and Otten returned with three releases and one "Hell, no" from Jennifer Atwood at the Thirteen Precinct. With the cases left from Briscoe, Profaci, and the three retired detectives, they now had eight cases with ten still up in the air.

Only Couch was in the squadroom when they returned.

_Looks like he's cramming for the sergeant's exam... he also looks none too happy to see us... I'd be pissed, too... we blow it big time and find a high-visibility, good chance of commendation serial killer while everyone else gets a doubled workload...._

John sank into his desk chair and dialed the number for Wilton, the retired detective in Hawaii. While he waited for the call to go through, Otten and Sofarelli headed into the interview room.

"Mrs. Wilton? This is Detective John Munch, Manhattan SVU—yes, I am calling from the city. Oh, the weather is nice—warm and sunny. No, it hasn't rained much this summer. Yes, we could use a few summer showers."

_Who does she think I am—Jim Cantore?_

"Look, Mrs. Wilton—I'm calling on the city's dime. Is your husband available? Good, I appreciate that. Yes, I'm sure it is great to hear a voice from home."

_That's what we here for... to protect and to serve up weather reports...._

Raised voices, Otten's then Couch's, coming through the open door of the interview room distracted him from the sounds of Mrs. Wilton calling her husband Chuck to the phone.

"It's been rough recently—maybe you noticed?"

"We're trained and paid to handle rough—maybe you noticed?"

"Detective Munch?"

The male voice in the phone's receiver halted his eavesdropping. John explained why he had called and asked if Wilton remembered anything about the death of Liang Fei, a nine-year-old boy who had disappeared from the alley behind his grandparent's Chinese take-out in May of 1995.

"That's a long time ago, Detective. Give me a minute to look it up in my notes."

The line went quiet again. John slid his chair to the limit of the phone cord and resumed his eavesdropping.

"Well, I'm listening," Couch was saying. "Start explaining."

"I had two sessions," Otten said, "with a departmental shrink as required by Chief Conrad. Both the shrink and Cragen signed off on my Uncle Bob because he is a certified grief counselor, not because he's family. It's all approved. I don't really see where you can question it."

"Sure, I can," Couch replied. "It's not working."

"What?"

Chuck Wilton's voice through the phone receiver drew John back to his call.

"Detective Munch? Could I call you back in a couple minutes? I think the note pad I want is in a box in the spare room closet."

"Tell you what," John told Wilton, "I'll call back you back in ten. Okay? Great. Bye."

He hung up the phone and eased up from his chair. Being careful to away from the open door, he sidled up to the one-way glass. Inside, Otten had planted her fists on the table as she leaned toward her partner. Couch stood with his arms crossed, his body placed at an angle to hers.

_She's vehement... he's adamant... not a good combination...._

Otten was saying, "It's not that simple. I ended a life. Yes, Greg Lau was a dirty cop. Yes, he murdered two officers. Yes, he was trying to kill Tucker and me, but it's not as simple as 'he's dead and I'm not.'"

"But we talked this out a month ago."

"You really think something like this goes away in a week or two? Just go to two psych visits and three counseling sessions and I'm cured?"

Otten stood straight, a move that showed her disgust with her partner's obtuseness.

"I still have problems from the first skel I shot and that was thirty years ago. It should be that way. The day I can't feel horror at taking a life, I don't just become a bad cop—I stop being human."

John rocked back on his heels.

_I can hear Bayliss saying something like that.... it's the 'why' of his confession to Pembleton about killing Ryland... he couldn't keep living with the horror of what he had done—knowing he was capable of killing—not to protect a partner or a civilian, but in cold blood—judge, jury, and executioner all in one trigger pull...._

Inside the interview room, Otten sank into a chair. Couch came around the table and leaned against it by her. John ignored them to continue his thoughts.

_I led Bayliss to believe he could kill without remorse or regret... I lied to him to protect myself... and I need to get back to Wilton more than I need to think about this...._


	8. Skim Milk and Cream

A/N: If you're not familiar with Munch's history in Baltimore, check out .com/title/tt0106028/faq#.2.1.2  
It explains what you need to know for this chapter.

Manhattan SVU squadroom  
13 July

John got Detective Wilton back on the phone without having to give Mrs. Wilton another weather report. During the call, Dante Otten walked into the squadroom. He was wearing civvies and had a folder under his arm.

_Cara told me her daddy is a lion... I didn't tell her lions kill and eat giraffes... that folder must hold Nila's photos...._

"Hold on a sec, Chuck."

"Dante," he called to the newcomer, "your mom's in the interview room with Couch."

"Thanks, John."

Munch then returned his attention to his phone call.

"Sorry about that, Chuck. You were saying...?"

By the time John ended his call, Dante had left, and Couch had his nose buried again in his study notes. John stopped by his desk on his way to the interview room.

"You and your partner okay?" he asked.

Couch looked up from his reading.

"Is that any of your business?"

No, but it is my fault if you're not... at least, the part that isn't your fault is my fault....

"You do understand," John asked, "that I meant it what I said earlier?"

"Yep, but you still insulted my partner. Shall I rip your lungs out now or later?"

John leaned back on his heels.

_Shit... he looks like he means it...._

"Later, much later. In fact, years later suits me."

Couch grabbed a pen and wrote 'July 13, 2027—rip John Munch's lungs out' on a scrap of paper. He then slid its top edge under the base of his desk lamp. His gaze never left John's face. That and the stern set to his jaw gave no signal as to whether he were joking or not.

_Might as well ask...._

"Uh, Couch? Can you really do that to me?"

Couch made a fist and punched toward John's tie clip then pulled back in a motion too swift to follow. John's reaction, a jump backward that drove him into Greg's desk, started after Couch's punch ended.

"It's not hard," Couch noted. "I drive my fist through your ribcage, grab, and pull. Piece of cake."

John forced his hand to stay away from his chest.

_He can't possibly mean it... or maybe he does... I should leave it at that...._

When John entered the interview room, he found Otten laying out the evidence folders from the last five cases.

"Dante brought Nila's photos," she told him. "A school photo and several of her playing—all of them full face. One is from Bennett Park. Want to use that as the operation location?"

"Suits me."

Otten continued to stack envelopes on the table.

"He also said that Connie's team took down their phony securities operation this afternoon—two dozen arrests, including the top dogs, and three boiler rooms shut down. Connie thinks the total scammed from investors will top $200 million dollars."

"That's impressive," he said. "She said Saturday that case was about to break."

Otten shot him a sideways glare.

_Oops... looks like either Connie or Saturday is still a touchy subject... time for a change of topic...._

He placed his notes from the Wilton phone call by the laptop.

"I just got off the phone with Detective Wilton in Hawaii. According to him, Fei's grandfather remembered a man who ate at their restaurant several times before Liang disappeared. Afterward Liang was found dead, the grandfather never saw the man again. Wilton didn't heard about this until several weeks after Liang's death, so a canvass of the neighboring businesses turned up nothing."

"Description?" Otten asked with a pause in the middle of the word to yawn.

"Tall, white, light brown hair. He paid cash and always asked for extra fortune cookies."

"That's three cases with a light-haired man."

"A whopping 16% of them," John noted. "By the way, Huang e-mailed me. He'll be in tomorrow late afternoon. I sent him your spreadsheet to give him a head start."

"Fine. Ready to go through the rest of the evidence?"

He leaned against the table, careful to leave the envelopes and folders undisturbed.

_I'm not going to rub Couch the wrong way... I like my lungs where they are, but Otten can't kill me with one hand...._

"You and Couch okay?"

Otten paused with her hand still in a plastic bin.

"Couch just doesn't get it. Taking someone out is not a competition match. There aren't any referees or rules, and we don't shake hands and go out for beer together afterward. Best case—someone goes to jail, and someone goes home and has nightmares. Worst case...."

She let her voice trail off.

"But you two are good?" John asked again.

"For now. I hope it holds. I really don't want to go through this again."

For an instant, John considered giving Otten a comforting pat on her shoulder.

_What the hell am I thinking? She'd have Couch rip my arm off...._

He took a step back and said, "Then let's tackle the evidence."

They sat at the table and worked their way through the most recent five cases: Alvita Shaw, Innocent Ngwane, Daniel Munka, Joshua Parkinson, and Christopher Homer.

_More clothing... more photos of small bodies dumped like trash... one behind a hedge near a sidewalk, two behind Dumpsters, one left in the back of a pick-up truck parked on Broadway in Inwood, and one found under a park bench... two witnesses saw Daniel Munka, the seventeenth victim, talking to a woman in green or turquoise scrubs before his Cub Scout meeting the day he disappeared... no other description—just 'female in scrubs'.... Jennifer Munka also told detectives that a man with thinning brown hair stopped her and Daniel in the grocery store two days before her son went missing and asked her if she was from Ethiopia. She corrected him and went on her way...._

"That's four men with light brown hair," Otten said. "We're working our way up to 20% of cases mentioning such men."

"And one woman in scrubs. We also have a lost pizza delivery driver in case #14, Alvita Shaw."

"So many cases," Otten said as she reached for another envelope. "So much stuff to sift through."

_Joshua Parkinson, murdered 13 April 2005, Case #05-H-0167 released by Detective Adams, who found the victim "creepy"... blue jeans sized eight husky and hand-hemmed—thanks to Otten for that fact, bright red hoodie, Bob the Builder underwear, black sneakers with Velcro fasteners, no socks... Joshua went missing from his aunt's townhouse; she was watching him while his parents went out to celebrate their anniversary...._

"Only one more," Otten announced.

"Case 06-H-0071, Christopher Homer," John read from the label on the last envelope left. "Most of the data is still at the Two-Oh with Maguire. Let's send Greg and Jason to get it while we're in Queens. When it gets here, we can go through the whole case all at once."

Otten saved her spreadsheet then pulled off her Latex gloves and tossed them in the trash.

"Sounds good to me."

She then got up and closed the open door.

"Now," she told John, "let's tackle a different topic. I asked you a yes-or-no question earlier—did you ever kill someone in the line of duty? You didn't answer 'Yes.' You didn't answer 'No.' You ducked the question. Why?"

John slowly rose to his feet.

_Height, indignation, attitude... use them to end this once and for all...._

"I have never killed anyone in the line of duty," he told her in his haughtiest voice. "If I had, it would be in my jacket. If you need to talk about Lau to get him out of your system, that's fine, but remember that we also have to work this case."

Otten crossed the room to stand an arm's length from John.

"What about off-duty?" she asked. "If I headed down to Baltimore and sniffed around, would I find a stink?"

John shrugged.

_Act like I'm not concerned... crack a joke... protect myself...._

"Sure, Otten—you'd find a stink. It's called _Eau de Balto_. The city bottles it to sell as a skunk repellent."

He smiled at his own joke. Otten kept her glare aimed at him.

_She's pissed… nostrils flaring… fists clenched like she's ready to rip my lungs out...._

"Detective Munch," she said, his title and name precisely pronounced, "answer my question or Connie and I will travel to Baltimore to find out exactly what you're hiding."

John froze.

_Shit... both Otten and Connie are too smart to stop at my old unit for an official inquiry... they'll go straight to the nearest cop bar... which, thanks to my least stellar business decision, is the Waterfront... all they'll have to do is introduce themselves and buy a round or two... every one there will have a story or two to tell about the Munchkin... it will be only a matter of time before someone gets around to telling how I wreaked revenge on Gordon Pratt...._

His throat went dry and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Otten's glare did not waver.

_I can't let either of them hear that story... I can't... once it gets to Cragen, he'll hand it and me over to IAB... charges will be filed... they'll slap handcuffs on me and send me back to Charm City... it will stop being a story told by bunkies who understand what drives a cop to kill... it will become the prosecution's opening statement... it will kill whatever chance I might have with Connie... I'll end up in the cell next to Bayliss in Hagerstown...._

His knees buckled and he folded back onto his chair. Although the linoleum was a much safer, friendlier sight, he forced himself to meet Otten's gaze.

"Don't," he said to her. "I'll tell you the truth."

Otten pulled a chair out and carried it to the opposite side of the table. As soon as she was seated, she raised an eyebrow.

_Interrogator and interrogatee... never thought it would get to this point...._

He swallowed hard twice then told Otten about the arrest and search warrants to be served on Glenn Holton, a suspected child murderer, how four detectives went to his place in the Mt. Vernon Apartments, and how three of them were shot and critically injured from the landing above.

"Not you?"

John shook his head.

"I froze when Kay was hit. It wasn't until Stan started to go down that I was able to move. I put a hand on his arm, trying to hold him up, but all I did was fall with him. That's when I drew my weapon—I didn't have it out before then. The two uniforms with us went after the shooter while I tried to draw my weapon and get back on my feet."

_Pathetic... that's what I was... I couldn't stop it... I couldn't protect them... I couldn't even chase the guy down... all I could do was scream for help and slip on their blood...._

John next told Otten how Homicide detectives tracked down Holton only to discover he wasn't the shooter.

"Turned out the shooter was Gordon Pratt, a racist piece of detritus who thought he was the second coming of Lee Harvey Oswald. A clerk downtown had transposed two digits of Holton's apartment number, a mistake that had us knocking on Pratt's door. He saw us putting our vests on through his window and figured we were coming for him. Gee—our lieutenant, Al Giardello, had given Frank Pembleton the task of bringing Pratt in, so it was Pratt and Pembleton in the box that night."

_I was observing with Gee and the other detectives... we all wanted to be there when Frank broke the son of a bitch... all of us wanting payback for the bullets Pratt put into Kay's heart, Beau's leg and neck, Stan's head...._

"And?"

The cold monosyllable interrupted John's thoughts.

"Pembleton blew it," he told Otten. "Pratt was a scrawny little shit who didn't even finish high school, but he acted like he was _Übermensch_, smarter and better than everyone around him. Frank should have played to his delusions, catered to Pratt's ego—hell, if he had to, he should have shucked and jivved like the racial inferior Pratt thought he was. Interrogation is the wrong place for showing off. Frank was there get a confession, not prove that he was smarter and better than Pratt."

John blew out a long deep sigh.

"Frank didn't make many mistakes, but he did that night with Pratt. The little weasel kept spouting racist drivel, backing up his claims with a beat-up copy of The Republic in the original Greek. Frank knew Pratt was faking his erudition because he had learned ancient Greek and philosophy from the Jesuits. Just before daybreak Frank gave into temptation. He slapped Pratt down by translating Plato correctly then crowing about how he, a black man, was smarter and more educated than Pratt."

_It was a momentary pleasure... one Gee made Pembleton pay for afterward...._

"Being proved an ignorant moron pissed Pratt off and he lawyered up. Since we didn't have anything to hold him, we had to let him go. Two hours later, the smirky little scumwad was dead. Someone put a nine mil round through his head."

Otten rested her arms on the table and leaned forward.

"And you carried a...?"

John forced a smile.

_Here's where it gets grim...._

"A Glock 22, the standard BPD issue. As you know, it takes 9 millimeter cartridges. Giardello stuck Tim Bayliss—remember I told you about him and Adena Watson—he stuck Tim with investigating Pratt's murder. Bayliss worked the scene, and he ran down the few leads he had. He talked to the last person Pratt spoke with before his death, and he checked out the alibis of every one of us murder police. When he came up with nothing, he ran through it all again.

"When he had finished the second time, Bayliss told Gee that he had no suspects, and he couldn't close the case. It's still on the books as open."

John watched his hands resting before him on the marred wood of the table.

_No tapping, no fidgeting... I passed through 'nervous' a long time ago...._

He pursed his lips and glanced around the room.

_How about an earthquake or a tornado... anything to turn that piercing blue-eyed glare off me?_

"It didn't matter that the case stayed in red under Bayliss' name on the board. Everyone knew who Pratt's shooter was. For a long time, I couldn't buy a meal or a drink if another cop was around. Uniforms would come up to me and nod, almost as though they were paying homage to me. My own shift accorded me respect I never got from them before Pratt was killed."

He stared down at his hands, the left resting on the right, his long fingers motionless.

_Still as death...._

"If you and Connie go to Baltimore, that's the story you'll get. Officially, there were no suspects, but everyone knew."

Otten leaned back until she sat straight in her chair. Her gaze never left his face, but he saw her focus shift inward as she considered his story and her options.

_You won't sweep this under the rug... no more than you would welcome a dirty cop into your family... you're sitting there mentally shoving all the pieces around until they fit together... the pattern they form will decide my fate...._

"Everyone knew," she repeated, her attention still focused inward. "You knew."

Her head came up and she frowned at him.

"That's not a confession."

John braced himself for the words he knew were coming next.

"You're a phony. A complete and utter fake."

John closed his eyes and let the sting of her statement lash over him.

"Yes," he agreed with a whisper, "I am."

"You're as insecure as you say Pratt was."

John nodded.

"I know that. Only a loser takes pride in a murder he didn't commit."

_And I'd almost rather go back to Baltimore and face charges than have everyone know that truth... almost, but not quite...._

He watched as Otten continued to frown at him.

_I've puzzled her... insecurity is not something she knows at the gut level... at least she isn't horrified... but I may still get hit with it... I'm not free of this yet...._

"What a cowardly—"

John shot out of his chair. "I'm not a coward. I was ready to shoot Pratt. I drove to his apartment. I had my weapon out—this time, I was ready. It's not my fault someone got to him first."

He towered over her, his heart pounding and muscles tensed, prepared to fight over the name she had called him.

_This is stupid... I'm in this mess because I was afraid people would call me a coward for not returning Pratt's fire or chasing him down... I'm about to make the same mistake again...._

John sank down into his chair. Otten gave him time to compose himself before she spoke.

"So you accepted the accolades for someone else's deed. Why did everyone assume it was you?"

"Means, motive, opportunity," he told her, "the three aspects of an criminal case. Pratt was shot with a Glock; I carried a Glock. Pratt had critically injured three detectives; I worked with those detectives and was the partner of one of them. Right after Pratt got sprung, I left to visit Stan at the hospital, but I sneaked in before visiting hours and no one saw me there except my partner. The hospital was only five minutes away from the stationhouse, and Pratt's apartment was only a few minutes from there. I had ample time to stop at both places."

He folded his hands to keep from seeing them shake as his nerves went taut again.

_It's like I'm back with Bayliss in the coffee room... hearing him again ask where I was that morning...._

"Add to that a very weak alibi. I was hightailing it for home before it hit me that I should go some place where people would see me just in case I did become a suspect. I went to Zorba's, a Greek restaurant on Eastern Avenue, but I didn't go in."

_I parked on the street and sat in my car shaking like a leaf...._

"Trouble was, when Bayliss asked where I had been at the time of Pratt's murder, I forgot about Zorba's and I told him a different restaurant."

"An amateur mistake," she sneered. "You should have known better."

"Yes, I should have. I did offer Bayliss my weapon, but he would not take it—no ballistics check, not even a sniff to see if it had been fired recently. It was obvious Bayliss didn't want to prove who killed Pratt—not if it meant charging a fellow murder police with murder. Since I knew how exposed I was, I counted heavily on his reluctance."

Otten leaned forward again. This time, she kept her voice low and calm.

"So, you were planning to visit your partner, then go to Pratt's apartment and kill him?"

John shook his head.

"I didn't decide to shoot Pratt until I saw Stan lying there with his head wrapped in white gauze. He was staring at me with a lost look in his eyes, his brain so scrambled he did not know who the hell I was. It shook me badly to see the Big Man so helpless, especially when I had done nothing to stop him from being hurt."

John swallowed hard, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of failure.

"I went back to my car, and I thought about Stan, and Kay, and Beau, and how we didn't know for sure they would come back to us. I thought about the smirk on Pratt's face when he walked out a free man. I thought about how I had failed to protect my partner. I also thought about how I should have been fighting for my life in that hospital just like Stan, and Kay, and Beau were, and I felt guilty as shit for being alive and well."

He met her gaze straight on.

"All that kept spinning through my head until it formed what seemed like a shining truth—it was my duty to avenge them by taking Pratt out. That's when I drove north to his apartment building. I parked on E. Madison around the corner from the entrance. I drew my weapon and held it at my side as I approached the building. I didn't want to get caught with it holstered this time. No one was on the street or anywhere in sight when I opened the outer door.

The scene was clear in his mind as he described it to Otten.

_Pratt supine on the floor, blue eyes open, entrance wound in his right temple... above him, the receiver of a pay phone dangled at the end of its cable... Bayliss said later Pratt had used that phone to call Mrs. Keene at his favorite diner to tell her he wouldn't be in that morning; he didn't want her worrying about him...._

"Blood spatter on the wall by the phone proved Pratt was standing beside it when he was shot. That had to have been only a couple minutes before I got there because blood was still seeping from the back of his head."

_The puddle was spreading toward my shoes... I couldn't bear to have more blood on my shoes...._

"I got the hell out of there—a damn good thing for me, because Bayliss' timeline for the crime showed that the landlord, Mr. Leibowitz, arrived right after I left."

"Did you see the shooter?"

"No. I didn't even see Leibowitz. All I saw was Pratt."

She held still as she considered everything he had told her—so still, he could see her body thrum with the rhythm of her heart. He counted the seconds as she weighed his words, his posture, his actions and reactions.

_She can still decide I'm lying about my innocence... if I'd known this was coming, I'd have skipped the blow job jabs...._

Finally, Otten shifted slightly closer to him and nodded her head.

_She believes me... she knows what I'm telling her is the truth...._

"So," she asked, "do you know who really did kill Pratt?"

John shook his head.

_I think I know, but nothing on earth will make me give that up... only one person had more motive, more means, more opportunity... only one person could make sure Bayliss never made an arrest... that's why he gave the investigation to him in the first place...._

John stared at his folded hands, surprised by how close he was to tears.

_It no longer matters... whatever reward he went to, he is safe from any human retribution...._

"You okay?"

Otten's concern pulled John out of his memories. He reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his eyes before blowing his nose.

"Sorry about that," he said to her, "I guess confession really is good for the soul."

She gaped at him for several seconds then she made a low, breathy whistle.

"Damn, Munch—is everything you do weird?"

"Yes. It's part of my charm."

John spread his lips in a weak attempt at a smile then he turned serious again.

"You don't have to tell Connie about this," he told Otten. "I'll take care of it. Whether you want to say anything to anyone else is up to you."

She let out another sigh before standing up.

"It's not my story to tell. As far as I'm concerned, my part in this is over."

Otten then glanced at her watch.

"It's almost midnight. I'm heading for the crib."

John's grin this time was not forced.

"Looking for privacy before Fontana calls?"

She snarled something at him then she turned toward the door.

"You coming?" she asked.

"Not yet. I've something to finish before I turn in."

As soon as she was gone, John grabbed a legal pad.

_There's one part I didn't tell Otten... I didn't tell her how my masquerade as Pratt's killer led Bayliss astray... Tim spoke with me the night Ryland was killed... he told me he always suspected that I had killed Pratt... I didn't know he was actually asking what it was like to execute a human being.... I didn't realize, when I said Pratt deserved an unavenged death, that I was giving Tim permission to commit Luke Ryland's murder... if I had blown off the praise and the free drinks and the undeserved respect—if I hadn't passed myself off as something I wasn't, then Tim wouldn't be doing time in Hagerstown... and it's long past time I acknowledged that...._

John took his pen from his jacket pocket

"Dear Tim," he wrote. "This is an apology I should have written years ago...."


	9. Colorful

A/N: LEO – Law Enforcement Organization

Dinah and Shechem are in the Bible, Genesis 34.

The Vitiligo Association is fictitious although similar organizations do exist.

The streets of Manhattan  
14 July

John checked out a beige Taurus for the trip to Queens. He drove while Otten called Detective Maguire, the primary on the Christopher Homer case.

_Why? Because studies show that males reacted better to commands and requests from a female voice.... primaries don't like giving up cases—at least, good ones don't—so we need every edge we can get to convince Maguire to release this... or agree to work with us for a share of the credit—I'd settle for that...._

"Detective Maguire? This is Judith Otten, Manhattan SVU. Oh, I'm well and you? Great. Why, yes—he is. You did?"

John glanced at her every few seconds to see what was occupying her and Maguire.

"I'll certainly tell him that. Yes, I'll do that, too...."

John made a show of checking his watch.

"Now, the reason I called—no, I really didn't call just to shoot the breeze...."

Otten explained the serial killer theory and how the murder of Christopher Homer related to it.

"We'd like to fold the Homer case into this one..."

_... finally... we're almost to the tunnel...._

"... if you have no objections. Yes... of course...."

John was caught by a red light, which gave him the opportunity to twist in his seat and glare at Otten. She held up a hand and made hand-puppet talking motions as she continued to smile and agree with the detective on the other end of the call.

"Okay, then Larsen and Reinholdt will stop later this morning for the files. I really appreciate this... yes, I'll tell him. Thank you again.... bye-bye."

She immediately began another call.

"Howie? It's Judith. Would you ask Greg and Jason to swing by the 20th Precinct and see Detective Chick Maguire? He's releasing the Homer case to us and he'll have his files ready later this morning. Great... thanks."

As soon as she pocketed her phone, John asked "What was Maguire bending your ear about?"

"He served under Cragen on the Anti-Corruption Task Force. He was telling me what a wonderful CO he was and how much he learned from him. We're getting the Homer case because of that—oh, and because I promised to relay Maguire's best wishes to our captain."

John's derisive snort drew a tight smile from Otten.

"You got it," she said. "Maguire is looking for a ride on Cragen's coattails. He figures a big favor will get him remembered."

"That assumes there are any coattails to ride. Cragen has to get promoted first."

Otten shrugged. "Howie says that Greg and Jason are reviewing the case files and they'll pick up Maguire's stuff before lunch."

John merged into the EZ-pass lane for the Midtown Tunnel.

"What's the word from Fontana?"

Otten froze. John saw her eyes shift in his direction, the only movement in her blank expression.

_C'mon, Otten... last night, I gave you enough to get me fired and jailed... talk to me... I'm interested...._

They were half-way through the tunnel before Otten made her decision.

"I think," she said, "the word for yesterday was 'brutal.' Joe said he talked with Fred's dad, then he talked things over with his partner, then he saw Skoda, and then Dante stopped by the Two-Seven."

"Ouch. Good thing they took his gun away."

"That's not funny."

"No, it's not, but neither is the thought of that much angst in one day. How did everything go?"

"Joe said that Sgt. Tierney was looking for some measure of justice from Fred's death. Trouble is, Joe hasn't found any so that didn't go well. That drug dealer believes Meade would have shot Green if Joe hadn't dropped him first so Green pretty much had to apologize for blaming Joe."

Before John could think up a pithy comment, Otten changed the subject.

"Did you know," she asked, "that drug dealer won't be charged with Fred and Tammy's deaths?"

John forced himself to keep his attention on traffic.

"What the hell?"

Otten told him what she had learned from Fontana about the DA's deal. John slammed his hand against the steering wheel and let loose a string of cursing that damned the DA, the judicial system, drug dealers in general, and Anacacis the pederast in particular.

"So what are they charging him with? Contributing to the delinquency of a minor?"

"Multiple felony drug charges," she replied, "felony kidnapping, child sexual abuse, et cetera—all from his treatment of a kid named Brandon Stone. Seems he predates Fred and Tammy's shooter."

John gripped the wheel as though strangling it. "Fuck it."

"Same here. I'm surprised Cragen didn't bring it up at the shift meeting."

_Every time I think Don can't stoop lower, he manages to... we should have known this—shit, we should have known about this before the deal even was offered... if Otten found this out from Fontana, then no one in the unit knows.... that's wrong, wrong, wrong...._

John loosened each hand in turn as he flexed sore fingers.

"How about you tell me about Dante before I shatter this steering wheel and kill us both in a massive wreck on the interstate?"

"Okay. Although my son didn't bother to mention it to me, Joe said he stopped by the Two-Seven last night to check Joe out for himself."

As Otten told how her son suggested Fontana attend some family gatherings and let everyone judge for themselves, John felt his blood pressure drop.

_So Dante laid down the law to Fontana... wonder if he told him the story of Dinah and Shechem—and if there's video of his reaction?_

He gulped down a laugh he did not want to explain then asked "What about Skoda?"

Otten shook her head before telling him that Skoda's questions about the shooting were straightforward, but that the rest of Fontana's session had been about her.

John managed to covert that guffaw into a strangled cough.

_An unrepentant libertine suddenly converts to monogamy—of course a shrink would find that interesting... you both should be on couches... Fontana for his loopiness and you for falling for it...._

Aloud, he said, "Maybe Skoda is worried that you're merely a figment of Joe's psychosis."

Otten stiffened and glared at him.

"I'm not a figment," she said coldly, "and that's our turn."

John took the Jamaica Avenue exit and headed east.

Forensic Investigation Division  
Crime Scene Investigation Lab  
150-14 Jamaica Ave, Queens, NY  
14 July

The photography lab was chockablock with machines: automated rapid access film processors, computers with dual plasma monitors, scanners, enlargers, video duplicators, editors, converters, and other machines John did not recognize. It also had the tried-and-true—a darkroom complete with red warning light and a sign warning "Do Not Open Door when Lit."

_And the obligatory hand-written question... "Can I Open Door When Sober?"_

They were in a small office tucked in the back of the lab. There, CSU Tech Mark Dill shuffled through the photos of Nila Otten.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I can work with these. You got her legal guardian's permission?"

Otten handed the signed form to Dill.

"A relative. That's handy. Now, what do you need?"

John handed him the picture book open to the last page.

"We need Nila to look as close to Amanda here as possible and then we have to create a web page about her."

Dill held the full-face school photo by the illustration and hummed to himself as he examined them.

"MySpace or BFriendz?" he asked.

John caught Otten's gaze.

_Damn... I know about those sites... why didn't I think of that?_

"BFriendz," he replied. "They have an area for younger kids—KidzBFriendz, I think."

Dill waved them to follow him into the lab. While he scanned all the photos, they talked about the trap to be laid and how to display the bait.

"If you use BFriendz," Dill told them, "you can tag the page as "Vitiligo", but it won't show up on Internet searches or a direct search of BFriendz itself. The site blocks search engines from crawling through the kids' pages. It can be gotten around, but your average user won't know how."

He handed the photos back to Otten and the book back to John then he sat down before a set of dual monitors. A few keystrokes and he had the illustration of Amanda on the left screen and the school photo of Nila on the right screen.

"But we could link to the page from other websites?" Otten asked.

Both John and Dill nodded.

"BFriendz discourages it," John noted, "as potentially unsafe, but they don't block it."

"So, Otten asked, "we could build this site ourselves and have the Foundation have a small blurb and link to it?"

"If they'll go for it," John replied. "We'll find out this after—wow!"

Mark already had reproduced the patch on the girl's left cheek.

"That was fast," Otten said. "How did you do that?"

"I sampled the skin color on the illustration, both dark and light, for their values and tones. I then sampled the same areas in the photo and set up the ratio for the correct value and tone for the lighter patch. I then transferred the shape from the illustration to the photo, and corrected for difference in size of the subjects. It's not perfect, but I can fix that."

"It's that easy?"

"Sure," Dill told her. "Spend the next two years working with me, and you'll be a whiz, too."

He turned to John.

"If you want a BFriendz page, I'll set up one with your photos and send you the password. You can arrange the photos and add whatever text you'd like."

John pulled out his card case and handed Dill his business card.

"Sounds good," he told the technician. "Otten, you want to name this girl?"

Otten pursed her lips and considered the photo.

"Shanice," she decided, "She won't need a last name. We'll need to pick a street close enough to Bennett Park for her to play there—"

John interrupted her.

"We can hash this out on the way back to the house. Dill, do you need anything else from us?"

"No, I don't think so—yeah, there is one thing."

He put John's card in his pocket and licked his lips as though nervous about changing the topic.

"I did the security video work for the Lucky Food Store shooting. You guys worked with Detectives Tierney and White, didn't you?"

Next to John, Otten stiffened just as a chill ran down John's spine.

_Dill, don't even think about offering us a copy of that tape...._

"That was a rough case to work," Dill continued. "I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what happened to them."

Otten's sigh of relief echoed his own.

"Thanks, man," John replied. "I appreciate that—that and the work you did for them."

He clasped Dill on the upper arm.

_Thanks for that... and for not being a ghoul...._

Office of Captain Donald Cragen  
Manhattan SVU  
14 July

"And I've got you lined up at the Vance Center for International Justice next Wednesday evening at seven p.m. with cocktails and canapés at six. You'll be part of a panel discussion on the joys of working with law enforcement agencies in other countries."

Andrew Beale beamed at Don from his seat by Don's desk. He held his Blackberry balanced on his ample waist.

"I had to pull a few strings on this one," Beale continued. "For some reason, the Center wanted people who could only talk about this topic, not people who actually have experienced those joys personally."

Don replied with a bitter laugh.

"What joys?" he asked. "It's the same jumping through hoops we do with the Feds and other police departments. Just add language barriers, time zone problems, and more distance to the jurisdictional disputes."

Andrew pointed a stubby index finger at his friend.

"Which is why you should be on this panel. You're worked with LEOs in Canada, Britain, Poland, Mexico, France, Israel, Russia, the Ukraine... am I forgetting any?"

Don thought about past cases with foreign ties.

"We just finished one dealing with Afghanistan...."

"See? You're more than qualified, and the lawyers and politicos who will be attending need to know what it's like the trenches. Refresh your memory on those cases and come up with a few anecdotes that don't make anyone look too stupid—you never know who's in the audience."

Don nodded and made a note in his daybook.

_If I had known angling for a promotion was this much work... who am I kidding? I'd still jump at the chance...._

Beale moved his thumbs on his Blackberry and peered at its screen.

"Now, are you free on the 27th? The City Council's Women's Issues Committee lost its speaker for its Manhattan Public Forum that night. If you could step in and talk on something pertinent: rape prevention, sex trafficking—"

Don smiled as an idea presented itself.

"How about pervert-proofing your home?"

Andrew chuckled. "For fun and profit? I can picture the ads."

Don flipped a page backward in his daybook. "I did rape prevention for Councilman Baker's community forum so child predators isn't a bad idea. I can cover both strangers and family members."

Andrew noted the appointment on his Blackberry. "Good idea. It's attention-getting and informative. I'll touch base with the committee chair—Elena de Palma, and have her call you with the time and place."

Don made a note of the council member's name. Beale pointed at Don's daybook.

"Don, that simply screams 'corner drugstore.' If you won't use a PDA, at least head over to the Pen Store and pick up something befitting your position."

Don held up the cardboard-bound daybook by its binding. "Why? Will an alligator-skin cover really hold my schedule better?"

Andrew grinned until his eyes were lost in his cheek fat.

"Oh, that's what I like about you, Don. You act so down to earth as you scramble your way to the top. If it makes you happy, then keep your daybook. Next year, however, think about Filofax or Quo Vadis. You'll appreciate the dif—"

Outside the office, the orderly bustle of the SV unit at work was disturbed by the arrival of an older man with a brown paper sack in each hand. Despite his casual dress: olive striped golf shirt with matching parchment slacks and cotton jacket worn unzipped, Don recognized the man immediately. Beale jerked his head to follow the man's progress across the squadroom.

"Is that one of your new detectives?" he asked.

"Heck, no," Don quickly answered. "That's Fontana, Manhattan Homicide. He's helping Munch and Otten with their serial killer."

_No reason for me to mention Judith's complete lapse in judgment over him...._

Andrew braced himself on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. He then walked to the window of the interview room and bent over, bringing his face even with the gap left when Munch taped up the case summaries.

"Is he the one who shot the Meade boy?"

"Yes," Don replied. "His lieutenant told me he's on administrative leave pending his review."

Beale turned back to Don. "He's wearing Marbas, a very expensive Italian golf shirt. Is he on the take?"

God, I hope not... last thing I need right now is a subordinate involved with a crooked cop... better change this subject and fast....

Don shook his head.

"Fontana usually looks like Las Vegas at night," he told Beale. "There must have been a death in his family."

Andrew chuckled at his allusion. "Good one, Don. Now, tell me about your golf game with acting Chief of Department Fulton."

Interview Room  
Manhattan SVU  
14 July

Greg Larsen was swarthy, a result of his father's father being from Sweden and the rest of his grandparents from Greece. His partner, Jason Reinholdt, had the blond hair and blue eyes expected from his name. Both men had three years in with SVU; Jason was divorced with shared custody of his thirteen-year-old daughter. Greg was committed to a fellow member of the Gay Officers Action League.

John shoved papers and photos aside to make room on the table for lunch.

_Greg's pissed at me... I was supposed to be working his cases while he was helping his mother with her broken hip... now, he's not only behind, but he's working our serial killer... maybe a free lunch will sweeten his attitude toward me...._

"Pastrami—no cheese, roast beef and Cheddar, egg salad and lettuce, provolone and onion, and ham and swiss."

Fontana recited the sandwiches as he passed them out to Greg, Jason, Otten, and John, keeping the last one for himself. He set the pints of sides by the side of the flat screen monitor that Tech Services had hooked into the laptop earlier that morning.

John took note of Fontana's sandwich choice.

_Is that proof that he is what he eats?_

He refrained from staring at Otten.

_I'm better off not knowing...._

"While we're eating," he told the group, "I want to show you what Mark Dill accomplished."

John swung the monitor until everyone could see it then he logged into Shanice's KidzBFriendz page. It was simple in design, the school photo centered under a bold flashing "SHANICE"S PAGE!!!", surrounded by pictures of Mark Dill's altered Nila.

_Sliding down the spiral slide at Bennett Park... playing hopscotch on a sidewalk... jumping rope—unfortunately, not Double Dutch... holding her daddy's hand and looking up at him... only Dante's forearm and hand shows, so there's no danger of identifying either of them... riding her bike on pavement...._

Each photo showed pale patches of less pigmented skin on the girl's cheek, lower lip and chin, the back of her left hand and her right wrist. Since Nila's photos showed her in summer clothes, Mark had added several patches to her arms and legs.

"He did a great job," Otten noted. "The faces all look identical to the book."

Jason pointed to the center photo.

"Think CSU could get rid of my daughter's acne? Jenny had her school pictures taken with a paper bag over her face."

John tapped the screen with his finger.

"All we have up are the photos. We need to create content."

"Content?" Fontana asked. "You want the five of us to think like a seven-year-old girl?"

John grinned at him. "You're looking at SVU's two best child impersonators. Put Jason and me on-line, and no pervert can tell we're not young girls."

"That says a lot about them," Greg noted. "Neither grew up and neither knows what the hell they are."

Otten pulled the laptop to her and wriggled her fingers. By one-thirty, Shanice had a favorite store, restaurant, take-out food, song, TV show, movie, book author, color, doll, stuffed animal, board game, best friend, clothing brand....

"I can't believe little girls care about all this stuff," Fontana said.

Jason rolled his eyes. "You should see Jenny's birthday wish list. She could bankrupt the World Bank."

John shook his head and sighed. "Greedy little girls grow up to be greedy ex-wives—remember that."

"Amen," Greg replied.

Otten paused in her typing to clear her throat.

"Color for all this greediness?" she asked.

A quick tally got two purple, one amethyst, two pink. She changed the font color to purple.

Jason pointed to the space left for the explanation of Shanice's her skin disorder.

"There should be a link to the Vitiligo Association and a story about what it's like to look different. Want me to rough it in while you two get permission to post this from them?"

John agreed with a nod. "Do any of you guys know Pelucci at the 18th, Clark at Major Case, Meister at the Three-Three, Atwood at the 13th, or Wright at Midtown North."

Fontana shook his head. Jason knew Clark from the academy; Greg knew Cheryl Pelucci's partner.

"Could you call them and see if they'll release their cases to us? We've got fourteen of the nineteen cases. I'd like to close all of them if possible."

Greg offered to cold-call the other three.

"I'll let you know the results—oh, and thanks for lunch."

Fontana jerked upright in his chair and glared at John.

"I've got lunch today," John assured him. "What's the damage?"

After John settled up, the three of them walked out together. Otten detoured to the restroom; the men waited for her at the elevator.

"What happens if the Vitiligo Association doesn't go for this plan of yours—you know, linking this BFriendz page to theirs?" Fontana asked.

"I borrow a thousand dollars from you and hope you're the forgetful type. That's how much Ms Kimpton wants to create a special page for Shanice."

Fontana reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. "You need it now, just in case?"

_You carry that much around with you? What are you—nuts?_

Fontana beamed at John and patted him on the shoulder.

"Paying a snitch, threatening a low-level goon with a bribe where his boss will see it being offered, impressing someone who needs impressing—cash is always handy to have around. Besides, I told you I owed you. You need a thou—you got it."

John held out his hand. "I was kidding, but I'll take it."

Fontana counted out ten C-notes as he said, "Would you tell Judith I had to get moving? I promised to meet my partner before shift."

John pocketed the wad of money. "Yeah, sure—no problem. See you tomorrow? If this meeting goes well, we'll start planning the operation at Bennett Park."

"I'll be here around ten. See ya."

As soon as the elevator doors shut behind Fontana, John slid his hand back into his pocket to touch the wad of hundreds.

_Must be nice to throw money around like this... come December 5th, after I write my last two alimony checks, I'll know what it's like...._

"You ready?"

Otten's voice behind him dragged John from his thoughts. He took his hand from his pocket to punch the 'Down' button.

"Yeah. Let's go bait a trap."

Office of Tracy Kimpton, Director of Public Information  
Vitiligo Association  
58th Street  
Woodside, NY  
14 July

The Vitiligo Association was located in a boxy two-story house with a great view of the rubblestone wall around New Calvary Cemetery. Tracy Kimpton answered the doorbell then asked them to take a seat in her living room while she got them some iced tea. John sat on the floral sofa, leaving Otten a wingback chair to his right.

"Not exactly the corporate office that I expected," John commented as he surveyed the room.

Otten pointed across the entry hall. "If you lean forward and look left, you'll see filing cabinets and computers in the dining room. I guess vitiligo isn't as big as breast cancer or lung disease."

Tracy Kimpton confirmed Otten's guess.

"Vitiligo affects only two percent of the world's population and it's not a life-threatening disease," she told them as she offered John sugar for his tea, "but try going through life with a face like a panda bear and you'll find out how devastating the disorder can be."

John gave her the once-over.

_Mid-forties... thin, tall, short dark brown hair and brown eyes... sleeveless white cotton blouse and floral wrap skirt... no sign of pigment problems on her face, arms, or legs...._

"You don't have this yourself?" he asked.

"No. My oldest son developed vitiligo when he was four. Since we're Caucasian, his macules aren't very noticeable, but he did get a lot of teasing in junior high. Some of the boys claimed he had leprosy—not a rumor you want spread about when you're trying to get girls to notice you."

Echoes of cruel nicknames from junior high ran through John's memory.

"I understand that feeling completely."

Kimpton gestured toward her dining room.

"There wasn't much information available in 1984, so I started calling the hospitals and medical schools in the Northeast to ask if anyone was working on this. I compiled everything I learned about treatments and research into a newsletter. That gave us a mailing list of of people willing to support research and publicity. I started the Vitiligo Association and began raising money for research grants and treatments for people who couldn't afford them. I worked with volunteers to set up state and local support groups. We went national in 1992."

She took a sip of her tea. "Now, we're have branches on every continent except Antarctica. We present at dermatological conventions both here and overseas. We host symposiums, and provide speakers to groups around the country. We fund research and treatment, and help vitiligo patients get the help and support they need. Basically, we do what I wish someone could have done for our son when his first macules developed."

"Impressive," Otten told her, "you saw the need and built the solution. That's really something."

Kimpton waved her compliment away. "All I did was pull it all together. Right now, the majority of the work is done in Atlanta; I handed leadership over to a board of directors in 2003 and kept only the PR work—but you didn't come here to admire my work. What can I do for you?"

Otten moved her glass to one side and opened the picture book. Kimpton studied the illustration and the screen captures of the KidzBFriendz page while John explained their case and their plans.

"You really think," she asked, "this guy is checking our website to find this girl?"

"I'm sure he is," John replied, "and he's attending events sponsored by your group, hanging around dermatologists' offices, and searching the papers for any mention of vitiligo. This man has spent the past thirteen years tracking down the twins to the children in this picture book. A man like that will not settle for a near miss—he wants nothing less than a perfect match." "

Kimpton pointed to the screen capture.

"You said these are manipulated photos. Is there any way to trace them back to the original ones? Could your killer find that little girl?"

"No," Otten told her. "Even if he could, he's only interested in finding the girl in the book. Every other child is safe from him."

"But," Kimpton protested, "if he attends our events, then can't you show us a photo?"

"If we had one," Otten told her, "we'd show it to you. You would identify him and we'd arrest him."

John hid an approving smile.

_Assumption of aid and support... get Kimpton in the mind set of helping us... good follow-up to my assurances of safety... this woman doesn't have a chance of turning us down...._

"Unfortunately," Otten continued, "we have nothing to show you. That's why we need to set a trap for him."

"And we need to do it now," John added, "just in case there really is a little girl out there who looks like this."

He tapped the Amanda illustration. "We can't have that now, can we?"

Kimpton bit her lower lip as she considered their request.

"And all you want is a photo and a link from our children's page to this BFriendz site?"

Both John and Otten nodded.

A few more seconds of lip-biting and Tracy Kimpton agreed to help. She even waived the fees to change the foundation's website.

"I hated to sound greedy, but you wouldn't believe what some unscrupulous quacks will do to get our databases or steal our mailing lists. Usually, the mention of money turns them away."

She left the sofa and went into her office. When she returned, she handed a business card to John.

"Sam McDowell in Atlanta runs our website. I'll call him as soon as you leave and let him know what you need."

True to her word, Tracy Kimpton had called Atlanta by the time John and Otten got back to their desks. John called McDowell and discussed site analytics with him while Otten had a brief conversation with Captain Cragen at her own desk.

Around them flowed the bustle of shift change: detectives about to leave for the day handing off current news of ongoing investigations to the people who would continue the work that evening, the catching-up of personal news, the sharing of gossip, discussions on the performance of sports teams, both real and fantasy, and the rapid draining and refilling of coffee carafes.

_It's the social lubricant that helps us survive another day in paradise...._

Greg and Jason made it back just in time for the shift meeting. After it, Jason put two folders on John's desk, one thin, one so thick it needed a wide rubber band to keep its contents in check.

"We got Pelucci and Clark for you," Greg said. "Atwood told us to go to hell; Meister was more polite, but same message. Wright wants to talk to you before he thinks about it."

John aimed a finger at his desk phone. "I've left two messages for that dickhead. If he wants to talk to me, why doesn't he call me back?"

"Sucks to be ignored, don't it?" Jason chimed in. He then pointed at the thicker of the two folders.

"Jerry said to tell you that Adnan Baghdadi was the son of the Saudi Arabian Consul General stationed in Houston, Texas. He and his family were staying at the embassy here and the boy's murder caused a huge diplomatic stink. Jerry wants some credit if and when we close this."

"We pull this off and there will be plenty of glory to go around."

He beckoned Otten over from the coffee pot.

"Just so you know—we're going live with the web link at 12:01 a.m. EDT Friday. That means we'll be in Bennett Park on Friday."

Both men groaned. "Munch," Greg said, "it's shift change. In case you forget, we work a double tomorrow, which means I'm sleeping in on Friday."

John dismissed his concern with a grin. "We'll make certain Shanice only goes to the park in the afternoon. That should give you your beauty sleep. See ya."

To Otten, he said, "Huang's up in the lounge waiting for us."


	10. Setting the Trap

A/N: _mishegas_, n. insanity; craziness (Yiddish)

The NYPD procedures and regulations depicted in this story have been modified to fit the needs of the plot; they do not reflect the actual procedures and regulations of any police department.

Sixteenth Precinct  
Seventh Floor Lounge  
14 July

George Huang stepped back from the railing and wondered what the hell had gone wrong .

_Three weeks ago, I stood here and observed this unit... almost everything I feared could happen has happened—partnerships shattered, group morale destroyed, two detectives under disciplinary action, the CO disengaged from the disintegration of his unit... at least Howie's shift is holding together, although I'm not happy about their interactions with what looks like Olivia's shift—she led the shift meeting, not Elliot... I made an appointment to talk to Don about this tomorrow... I had hoped to speak with him today, but he had an off-site meeting to attend...._

The sound of people coming upstairs broke his train of thought. Huang took a seat at the table and opened the folder containing the case info spreadsheet and his notes,

_But that is tomorrow's concern... I'm here to help John and Judith with the serial killer... interesting case and they've certainly gathered a mass of evidence... enough for me to form a sketchy profile...._

Munch and Otten took seats opposite him. Both had brought steaming mugs and notepads. John also had the picture book tucked under his arm. Neither he nor Otten looked well-rested.

_I know about the disciplinary action—A.D.A. Novak mentioned it during trial prep on Monday... she learned of it from Brewster, who also testified on that case...._

"You two look tired," he said in greeting.

John sighed and played with the tag on his tea bag.

_Judith stiffened when I made my comment... she also does not want to talk about it... so I'll stick to the matter at hand...._

George laced his fingers together and looked from John to Judith.

"Serial killers who target children without molesting them are extremely rare."

John released the paper tag and let it flutter to the side of his mug. Judith made a faint hiss as she sighed.

_Both look relieved at the change of subject...._

"That's one reason," John replied, "that no one tied these cases together."

"The diverse races of the murdered boys and girls didn't raise any flags," Judith added.

George kept his gaze fixed on his notes to hide his surprise.

_They're finishing each other's thoughts... unlike the Kilkenny Cats, they've stopped fighting each other before only the tips of their tails were left... Don did a good job on that front...._

"It will from now on," George noted. "I expect psychiatrists and law enforcement professionals around the world will study this case."

_I plan to write a journal article... giving proper credit to everyone, of course...._

"Assuming we catch him," John noted. "Do you have anything useful for us?"

"Depends upon what you consider as 'useful'," George replied as he opened his folder and handed each detective a summary of his research.

"You both know," he continued, "that the basic profile for a serial killer and a pedophile differ in some aspects. Serial killers tend to target strangers...."

"While pedophiles target family members and children they've befriended," Judith cut in.

"Serial killers start later in life than pedophiles," George noted. "Late twenties for the former group, mid-teens for the latter. Serial killers live in a fantasy world in which they hold the power of life and death over their victims. The pedophile's fantasy is that the children want and enjoy his attentions, so much so that they 'ask for it'."

"But there are similarities," Judith noted. "Both types are likely to have been abused as children and to have used day-dreaming and fantasy as an escape. Both self-identify as shy, socially awkward, and depressed."

Huang nodded to acknowledge her input while he observed John next to her.

_Judith is participating in our conversation... John is rigid, stiff, and he is not fidgeting... my guess—he's about to explode...._

"Then we're on the same page as to pedophiles and serial killers," Huang said. "I agree with John that you two are dealing with a serial killer. This means your perpetrator probably is Caucasian, in his early forties now, works a blue-collar job, and has a limited social life. He has—"

"—a high school education, if that much."

The sneer on John's face matched the scorn in his voice as he chanted his next words.

"And he has a deep-seated resentment of authority, especially maternal. C'mon, Doc—give us something we don't know."

Judith's eyes went wide at his vehemence. George did not permit himself to react. Instead, he folded his hands around his mug, and gazed calmly at the older man.

"Very well then, something you don't know. Your perpetrator is a parent, a teacher, or a librarian, or someone who reads to children."

The unexpected acquiescence wiped the sneer from John's face. He peered back at Huang as though suspecting a lie.

_At least Judith accepts that I know what I'm doing... she's taking notes and hanging on every one of my words...._

"What makes you assume that?" John asked.

Huang pointed to the picture book.

"'Not All Kids Look Alike'," he told them, "was published in 1991, too late for it to be a favorite book from childhood. Since very few adults read picture books for pleasure, it is likely your killer knows of this book because he read it to a child."

Huang picked up the book and paged through it.

"Each serial killer has a 'pre-crime stressor,' a situation or event that is his reason for killing. This book symbolizes that reason for your killer. I believe that this man's pre-crime stressor is related to his own children—they may have died tragically or were turned against him after a bitter custody battle. Because he cannot avenge himself on his children, he refocused his resentment and hatred onto the children in this book, a book he read to his own children in happier times."

_This, of course, is speculation... I'm combining fetishism with the standard serial killer profile in an attempt to describe something new... I could be wrong...._

George admitted his concern to John and Judith before telling them, "Whatever drove him to kill children does not alter the rest of the basic serial killer profile. Your man is feels powerless, trapped, and frustrated by something a child did, so he proves he is powerful and superior by killing children."

John opened the book to its first illustration, that of an English girl having a tea party with her stuffed animals.

"If he follows that profile," he said, his finger tapping the photo, "his first kill was more of an accident than a deliberate act. One day, he spotted a young girl who resembled this illustration, and the knowledge that she existed outside of this book ate at him."

"The perfect child in his imperfect world," Judith added.

"Yes," George agreed. "Your man probably had no intention of killing her when he finally approached her—in fact, when you ask him about his first victim, he'll tell you her death sickened and horrified him."

Neither detective showed any sympathy for that horror.

_They reserve that for the victims...._

"When your killer realized that he was in the clear after his crime, he began to remember the joy he experienced from killing—the power he felt when he broke his victim's neck, and how it relieved his frustrations and fed his need to dominate."

George pointed to the next illustration, that of a young boy playing street soccer with friends.

"When the frustration and powerlessness built up again, he went in search of the next child in the book in the hope that another kill would provide the same relief."

Both John and Judith nodded.

_Of course they comprehend... their experience is in homicide... they know how killers think...._

"And, when that kill was successful, it created the desire for a third one," Judith added.

"And a fourth and a fifth, and so on until the nineteenth one," John replied. "George, what happens after the last one?"

John reached out and flipped the book's pages to Amanda, the last child in the book.

"Suppose he had found this girl and killed her," he asked. "Would he then stop killing? Start over at the beginning of the book? Find another book and start a new collection?"

"Good question," George said. "If your killer is driven by the death of his children, he may find closure with the final victim and retire from killing. If he started due to the alienation of his children's love, then his children are now in their late teens or early twenties—old enough to reconsider whatever turned them against their father. They may have reconciled, which would eliminate the original source of his anger and frustration."

"That would mean he's killing only to complete his collection," Judith told him.

"That could be," George admitted. "I honestly don't know. This is uncharted territory."

"And it doesn't matter," John said. "We're not giving him the chance to retire; we're nailing the bastard for every one of his murders."

"How do you propose to do that?"

John laid out the plan to Huang with Judith filling in some details. George considered their plan.

_One can't cozy up to a serial killer... their real life persona and their fantasy persona are as completely divorced from each other as humanly possible... that is why a serial killer can pass for a 'normal member of society'... no one suspected the BTK killer of his crimes—those who knew him as a father, Scout leader, and upstanding church member were blindsided by his dark side...._

"It's a good plan, but it's for the wrong criminal. You're treating your perpetrator as thought he were a child predator. Predators like to share the tricks of the trade; they participate in on-line chats; they trade photos, DVDs, and tips on how to seduce children. They meet to network and to affirm that they are not the societal outcasts that the rest of us think them to be."

John elbowed Judith. "Couple of years ago, Elliot and I infiltrated one of those networking soirées. We got a lot of solid intel along with our collars."

Judith looked impressed.

_As she should be... John is very good at passing as a pedophile... he cracked a ring that smuggled children into this country and one that booked cruises to countries that allow child prostitution.... and wasn't there something about his choice of clothes for that operation?_

George hid a smile.

_It isn't professional, but John has gotten under my skin a few times... consider it sauce for the gander...._

"Serial killers do not hold potlucks with their counterparts," he told John. "Camaraderie is not part of their profiles. Your pastel plaid jacket, stack of conquest photos, and your child-friendly demeanor will not win this man's trust."

To George's delight, John ducked his head and looked embarrassed at the mention of that jacket.

_Stick to black, John... resort wear does not suit you...._

"If you want to befriend this man," George continued, "you'll have to reach him through his regular life—not his actions as a serial killer. His fantasy persona is too separate from his real life persona for you to cozy up to him as a fellow murderer."

Judith, who had been staring gape-mouthed as though the image of John in plaid had melted her brain, rejoined the conversation.

"But that would take too long. To close this quickly, we have to pick him out of the crowd at the playground, and, for that...."

George noted that Judith paused to grin at John, and how John sucked his lips against his teeth and braced himself for what she would say next.

_I just helped Judith win an argument...._

"... we need a better description than 'male, Caucasian, light brown hair'."

To George's relief, John contented himself with a glare of exasperation before conceding defeat.

"Okay, we'll go through the case files again for your 'person of interest'. We'll even call the witnesses in the recent cases and see if they remember anything new. Good thing I like eye strain."

He turned his exasperation on George.

"Got anything else for us, Doc?"

_Call me 'Doc' again and I'll mention that sports coat every chance I get...._

"Fifty bucks says his middle name is Wayne."

Judith put a hand to her mouth to muffle a laugh. John's exasperation melted until he had to grin back at the psychiatrist.

"Wayne, Wayne—the serial killer's mark of Cain. George, that's a sucker's bet."

George smiled back at the older man.

_I knew you knew about that oddity.... why a small but noticeable number of murderers have 'Wayne' as part of their name is matter for conjecture.... but that bit of trivia lets us end on a positive note...._

George gathered his notes while the detectives grabbed their gear and said their good-byes to him. After they had left, George made some notes about their meeting before he departed via the seventh floor hall.

_Tomorrow, I approach Don about the problems in his unit... I'll probably get tossed out face-first, but someone must talk to him... his people won't—rank insulates him from them... his superiors won't—not while his unit produces... that leaves me...._

Interview One  
SVU Squadroom  
14 July

"Detective Meister? Good, we finally connected. I'm Detective John Munch, Manhattan Special Victims...."

"Detective Atwood? It's Detective Otten.... No, I'm not calling about releasing the Munka case. You've made your stance on that abundantly clear. I'm calling to ask you a couple of questions...."

As soon as Otten hung up her phone, John cleared his throat. When she spun her desk chair in his direction, he grinned triumphantly.

"Meister released his case to us. He's sending his files over this evening."

Otten smiled back in reply. "What was the hang-up with him?"

"He wanted to talk to me directly. Once he heard my dulcet tones, he granted my every desire."

Twin snorts came from Stabler and Benson.

"Last I heard," Olivia noted, "dulcet meant 'sweet and pleasing'."

"Exactly," John retorted. "What about Atwood?"

Otten raised both hands in a helpless shrug.

"She didn't budge an inch. No release, no answers, no help. It doesn't make sense to me, but that's all the time I want to waste on her."

"I'll ask Cragen to lean on her," John said, "although it's tempting to let the Munkas realize that their son was part of this string of murders, and we didn't close his case because Detective Atwood is a flaming prick of a bitch."

All three detectives stared at him. Elliot even mouthed the epithet back at him.

"Just covering all the possibilities," John replied. "That way, it's not harassment; it's thoroughness."

To Otten, he said, "You ready to start combing through the files again?"

Otten slid her chair back and stood up.

"Yep."

"Great."

John picked up his phone's receiver.

"I've got a personal call to make, then I'll call the witnesses in the Homer and Parkinson cases—see if they remember anything else about the kidnappings. I'll be in when I'm done."

Otten opened her mouth to protest. John raised a hand to silence her.

"I'm the primary. I get the plum jobs."

Otten's reaction was a smile made of pure smug.

"Speaking of plum, how about an order of mu shu chicken with hot and sour soup. I'll be in the interview room."

John turned from her only to catch Elliot and Olivia grinning at him.

"Since you've been volunteered for the take-out run," Elliot called out, "Hunan chicken and two eggrolls."

"And I'll have the veggie egg foo young," Olivia added. "It's good to see you and—"

John dialed quickly to forestall Olivia's next words.

_She is dying to say something about Otten and me... maybe overhearing this call will end that train of thought...._

"Connie," he said when Sgt. Walker had answered his call, "it's John. I'm calling to see if we're still on for lunch tomorrow."

The warmth of her reply shut out Elliot, Olivia, and the rest of the squadroom. For that moment, nothing existed but him and the woman at the other end of his phone line.

"That's great... I'm looking forward to seeing you, too... I heard your bust went well... yes, I got all the details... okay, I'll let you go... tomorrow at 1:30... I'll say 'hi' to Judith... see you then."

John set the receiver down reluctantly, as though it were Connie's hand in his.

_She remembered our date... she sounds happy about it... maybe, this time... maybe this time, it will work...._

The rest of the evening was spent combing through the eighteen cases files. John's calls to Wichita, where the Homers now lived, and Orlando, where the Parkinsons had moved after their son Christopher was murdered, obtained some more info on the brown-haired "person of interest." The next morning, after Greg and Jason had had their coffee, the four of them met around the table in the interview room to review what they had learned. At the head of the table, the white board held lists of physical characteristics of the 'persons of interest' mentioned in the eighteen cases.

Jason pointed at the shorter lists on the left side of the board.

"Are we ignoring the woman in scrubs and those other prospects?"

"If you see any of them with a printout of Shanice's photo, go for it," Otten replied. "But we're concentrating on the man with the light brown hair. There's more mentions of him in these files."

"I got another one last night," John added. "According to Mrs. Homer, he was thin, and he was wearing blue jeans with a white collared shirt open at the neck. Mrs. Homer said he was staring so hard at her son that she told him to stop it or she'd call the police."

"So she got a good look at him?" Greg asked.

John shook his head. "Lots of people stare at albinos. Maybe they think her son is a midget Goth who forgot his eyeliner." All she remembers is telling the man off then hurrying Christopher away from him.

Otten stood up to add 'thin' to the brown-haired man's list on the white board.

"Still doesn't give us much," she said. "Male, Caucasian, light brown hair, probably balding by now. Mrs. Homer says he was thin. Mr. Fei remembers him as tall."

"Detective Wilton told me Mr. Fei was five feet tall on his tiptoes," John noted. "That might skew his height perception."

Otten put a question mark by the word 'tall' then she pointed at the item under it.

"Now, all the reports have him wearing jeans. Mr. Fei has him in white or blue Oxford shirts while the witness in the Doyle case said he was wearing a white t-shirt."

John leaned back in his chair and smirked at her.

"This guy needs fashion tips from Fontana."

Otten sat down again before scowling at him.

"If you really own a pastel plaid jacket, you have no call commenting on clothing."

Both Greg and Jason snickered at her words.

"Don't knock the Perv Jacket," Jason told her. "It works. Take John's glasses off and put that jacket on him, and there isn't a SV detective in the five boroughs who wouldn't arrest him on sight."

"Want proof it works?" Greg asked. "Look up 'molester' on the Internet and you'll find John and that jacket."

John peered at Otten over his lenses.

"Given my usual sartorial choices, it's a perfect disguise. I bought it for that very reason."

_Actually, I bought it because black is a stupid color for Florida summers—something I learned my first visit to Uncle Andrew after he retired down there... snide remarks about my temperature-appropriate clothing—especially about me in shorts—are why I never show vacation photos around the squad..._

John ignored Otten's raised eyebrows as he turned the conversation back to the case.

"Despite its efficacy, the jacket has to stay in my closet. Huang told us that our target won't respond to contact the way a child molester would. He said there's no camaraderie among serial killers."

"Damn," Greg said. "That means we need to find someone who is looking for a girl who doesn't exist. That's almost as bad as trying to prove a negative."

Otten handed Greg and Jason copies of Huang's profile notes and two police sketches of the brown-haired man from the Homer and Fei cases. Greg and Jason skimmed through the profile, but the generic facial features in the sketches brought frowns to their faces.

"I know the sketches are virtually useless," she told them, "but Novak assures me that they help tie our guy to those cases. Every little bit helps."

"Then we use them," Greg said. "Now, what's the plan for tomorrow?"

John went over to the white board and taped a map of Bennett Park next to the list of characteristics.

"First of all," he said, "you two sleep in."

John waited for their applause to subside before continuing.

"Otten and I wait for Sam MacDonald from the Vitiligo Association to call us. He'll let us know if anyone with an IP address located here clicks on the photo of Shanice on their home page. Casey's primed to subpoena the ISP for the physical address associated with that IP address."

Greg and Otten nodded. Jason's response was a loud "Huh?"

_Lecture time... I love explaining modern technology to the young...._

John directed Jason's attention to the laptop at the end of the table.

"When you log onto your computer, your Internet Service Provider—your ISP—assigns your computer an Internet Protocol address—an IP address. This allows all that porn you download to find your computer."

Jason snorted. "It's not porn. It's my daughter's music."

"You mean your daughter's pirated music," Greg added.

John glared at the two of them.

"We'll worry about that after we catch this guy."

He tapped the laptop with his finger.

"All the IP addresses used by every ISP are stored in a searchable database with the physical locations of the ISP and its users. The latitude and longitude associated with your IP address is accurate to Zip Code level—at least, that's what the geolocators admit."

John peered down at Jason.

"They, however, lie like a rug. I happen to know that gelocation is accurate enough to pinpoint the exact corner of the room in your apartment where you're downloading your dirty movies."

"I told you," Jason said with a grin, "it's not porn. It's Jenny and her music files."

John patted Jason's shoulder as he blew out an exaggerated sigh.

"Fine father you are—blaming your addiction on your daughter."

When the chuckles died away, John said, "This means we can ignore the girl in Nebraska checking the Vitiligo Association's website for a pen pal, and focus on the man in Manhattan with the dead child collection. Casey assures me that this data will get us a warrant to make the ISP give us the street address of the computer that checked out the Shanice BFriendz page."

Greg interrupted him. "Won't that take too long?"

_I hate explaining the obvious...._

"We need to prove that Shanice is the reason our guy is at the park when we take him. Otherwise, his lawyer will claim his client was there to enjoy a nice summer day and that he would never even think about hurting a child."

"Let alone hunting one down to kill her," Otten added. "Shanice's BFriendz page says that she goes to the park after lunch, so we need to be in place by noon at the latest. John said Cragen promised us the two new guys on our shift, so we'll start things off with them and bring you two in at the switch-up."

At the news of two new detectives, Greg and Jason turned to John for confirmation.

_Yes, Fred and Tammy's replacements arrive tomorrow... Don assured me they aren't white shields, but he wouldn't tell me anything else about them—a real "Screw you, Munch" move on his part... how am I supposed to deploy them when I don't know what they look like or what they can do?_

"Don't look at me for details," he said, "Cragen told me squat. I'm assuming they're competent."

All three detectives glanced furtively at the window to the captain's office.

_Their way of asking, 'More competent that Cragen's being right now?' Huang came in just as I was leaving Don's office... maybe he's pondering that very question... if so, I hope he can get through to Don...._

John tapped his finger on the northeast corner of Bennett Park.

"Obviously, we'll be concentrating on the playground. Any white male with brown hair will be photographed and observed. If we see him paying special attention to the playground entrance—watching to see who is coming in—we'll put a tail on him and follow him home. If his address matches the one we get from the ISP, then he's our serial killer. We'll get warrants then toss his place until we find his trophies."

Everyone smiled at the thought of trashing a skel's home.

_It's the simple things that make the job worthwhile...._

"We've arranged for back-up, radios, surveillance van, the techs to work it—everything we need. Olivia will have your gear for you when you come in. Before you leave here tomorrow afternoon, call me on my cell so I can update you on the current situation. Any questions?"

Both detective shook their heads.

"Then you're done with us until tomorrow afternoon. Have fun working your double-shift."

Vegetarian Dim Sum  
24 Pell Street  
15 July

The restaurant was barely wide enough for two lines of tables and a narrow aisle for the servers. John sat with his back to the door, opposite Connie and across from a sumo-sized man who was inhaling fried noodles as though the mayor had just outlawed them.

_Ignore the human vacuum cleaner and concentrate on Connie... she looks great in dark green... it brings out her eyes... that cotton sweater brings out her other attributes, too...._

Their conversation ranged through many topics: her phony securities case, his serial killer, her planned weekend with her family, his working round-the-clock with Otten, her being a Yankees fan, his grudging admission that he still followed the Orioles.

"I know they don't stand a chance this year—hell, right now they're fifteen games behind Boston—but I've spent the best and the worst years of my life rooting for them. They're about the only tie I have left to Charm City."

Connie placed her spoon in her Buddhist Noodle soup then raised an eyebrow at his statement.

"No family left in Baltimore? No friends?"

John froze.

_'Family and friends' doesn't mean ex-wives, but I'm not risking it... just recite the list of relatives quickly and move on to something else...._

"Brother, sister-in-law, and their kids, plus three cousins. I also have an uncle in Florida, and an aunt in a nursing home here in Manhattan. Most of my friends were on the job."

_The ridicule after my last marriage, the whole Bayliss-Ryland-Pratt mishegas, and then Gee's death... all that soured things between me and them...._

Connie tipped her head back and regarded him with solemn intensity.

"'He travels fastest who travels alone'—is that how it is?"

John took a hurried bite of his eggplant and garlic then chewed it slowly as though savoring its flavor.

_I'll bet she just compared my semi-estranged family with hers extended one... all her children, nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts, uncles—hell, Brooklyn's probably crawling with them...._

He swallowed and took a sip of his tea.

_The estrangement is my fault, not theirs... so it's time for a joke...._

John curved up one corner of his mouth and met her gaze squarely.

"It's more like 'He who is poor at keeping in touch loses touch'. I stink at writing Christmas newsletters."

Connie's throaty chuckle brought a genuine smile to John's lips.

"I've got some relatives I'd like lose touch with," she admitted.

"Well, you can choose your friends..." he told her.

"... but you can't choose your relatives," she finished the quote. "Truer words were never spoken."

Connie set both her elbows on the table and leaned closer to John.

"Has Judith told you we're not happy about her and this Fontana?"

John slid his plate aside to match her position.

_You have beautiful eyes, which is one reason I want to stay on your good side...._

"Fontana does have too much unexplained money, too many civilian complaints, a scuzzy reputation, and a plethora of kaleidescope ties. I can see why you're concerned."

He took a sip of his tea.

_On the other hand, I have to work with Otten..._

"But your concern is misplaced. Despite his flaws, Joe really is good people and he thinks the world of your sister-in-law. I wouldn't worry about him if I were—"

John's cell rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the incoming number.

"That's her now," he said as he answered the call.

John held his expression still as he listened.

"_I'm with Ed Green_," Otten told him. _"Joe's meeting this morning wasn't about the shooting. It was a termination review with the First Deputy Commissioner, the Chief of Personnel, and the acting Chief of Internal Affairs. Green says they went over Joe's jacket, his complaint record, his psych review--everything. When it was all over, Joe had to turn in his shield."_

John grabbed his tea cup and brought it to his lips to cover his shock.

_I don't believe it... there's procedures, rules... before termination, there's the Special Monitoring Program... and Special Monitoring follows a review by the Suspended/Modified Review Committee, the one Cragen threatened Otten and me with... which means the brass jumped over the entire disciplinary process... shit...._

"That sounds is seriously fucked up."

"_Damn right it is,_" she replied. _"Green said Joe stomped out of the meeting right before his lieutenant told off Balzano, Ward, and Gainey. He got the news from her because Joe is MIA. We're both on our way to Joe's place to see if he's there. Can you find your way back to the station house and can you cover for me?"_

"Of course. Don't worry about me. Let me know what happens."

"Thanks, Munch. I'll be back as soon as I can."

John ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket.

"Bad news?" Connie asked.

_Hell, yes... I have to decide between lying to you or risk pissing Otten off by telling you to add 'terminated in disgrace' to Joe's list of offenses...._

John looked straight in to Connie's green eyes, parted his lips, and hesitated for a moment.

"Yes, it is," he told her. "Fontana got screwed during his shooting review. Your sister-in-law and his partner are on their way to see him about it, which means I just lost my ride back to the One-Six."

_Sorry, Otten... I'm not about to lie to the woman I want to fall in love with...._


	11. Bennett Park: part one

A/N: I'm changing a canonical SVU character to suit my story. Lake will travel better without the insomnia, the rare books, the Vidocq Society, his magical affinity for Manhattan, and all the other dreck with which the writers saddled him.

As usual, any deviation between actual police or legal procedure and those depicted in this story are for the purpose of entertainment. This is not a textbook.

Office of Captain Donald Cragen  
Manhattan SVU  
15 July

On shift-changes days, Cragen worked the double shift with whichever of his shifts was on for the double. Today, that meant sixteen hours with Brewster's detectives.

_It also means I get to watch Munch and Otten prepare for tomorrow's surveillance of Bennett Park...._

As he worked on his reports, Cragen kept track of the two detectives. He listened via the interview room speaker while they ran through the proposed operation with Larsen and Reinholdt. He observed their movements around the squadroom as they collated info from the cases, and made phone calls to confirm the arrangements for equipment and personnel. He also noted the time they left together for a late lunch.

_And I noted the time Munch came back... an hour ago and alone... still no sign of Otten... it's time I asked what's going on...._

Cragen left his office and entered the interview room. Munch was at the laptop, his attention switching between its screen and a folder open beside it.

"Where are you on tomorrow's operation?"

At the sound of his captain's voice, Munch looked up from his work.

"I just got the names of the uniforms who will be working the Bennett Park area tomorrow afternoon shift. Sergeant Hendricks will have them contact Otten before their shift so she can fill them in on the current situation."

"And Detective Otten is working on ...?"

"She's interviewing some of the witnesses, seeing if they remember anything else. A few more details about this guy would be helpful."

Cragen observed Munch closely as he replied.

_I did say they could work independently if it were case-related... but Munch's gaze is too steady, and his answer feels rehearsed...._

He walked to the desk phone on the table beside Munch and picked up its receiver. Munch's gaze shifted between Cragen's face and the phone buttons as Cragen punched in a number.

_Yes, Munch—I'm checking out your story... there's no reason to trust you on this...._

Two rings later, Otten's voice said her name in his ear.

"Cragen," he replied. "Where are you and what are you doing?"

He noticed Munch tensing ever so slightly and Otten's hesitation before she told him that she was talking to Abu Saeed, a limo driver who was at the Saudi embassy when Adnan Baghdadi disappeared.

Cragen considered her answer.

_Could be true... except someone named Saeed would have an accent her partner can fake... she may be at Sofarelli's place helping him cram for tomorrow's exam... a good deed, but completely forbidden by the discipline orders she signed...._

He placed his hand over the receiver's mouthpiece.

"Get your cell phone and call Couch," he told Munch. "Put it on speaker."

Munch's jaw dropped open. He gaped at Cragen, his disbelief at the order halting his obedience.

"Do it now!"

While Munch scrambled in his jacket pocket for his cell, Cragen told Otten to hand her phone to Abu Saeed.

"_Yes, sir,"_ she said,_ "just a minute."_

He heard her voice faintly as though she were holding the phone far from her face. Her only clear words were "Captain Cragen."

_Either it's an introduction or she's coaching Couch... for both their sakes, it had better be the first one...._

Next to him, Munch had his cell in-hand. It rang twice before a female voice answered through the speaker.

"_Detective Sofarelli's phone."_

"Hanan? It's John Munch. Is Couch available?"

"_Sure. I'll go get him."_

Through the desk phone receiver, Cragen heard his rank and name spoken in a Middle Eastern accent. In the background were faint horn honks and other street noises.

"Mr. Saeed, I'm calling to verify my detective's location. Where are you and she right now?"

"_Yes, yes—we are in my limo on Broad Street. I wait here for a customer in a meeting—very important meeting. Detective Otten—she asks about the day His Excellency's son was taken. Very sad that day." _

Through the speaker on Munch's phone, he also heard Couch's voice.

"_Hey, John. Whatcha need?"_

Munch held his phone out for Cragen to take. Cragen waved it away to concentrate on his own call.

"Thank you, Mr. Saeed. I appreciate your help. Could I speak to Detective Otten?"

"_You are most very welcome."_

Otten's voice came through the receiver next. Cragen told her to swing by the Thirteenth Precinct to pick up the case files on Daniel Munka.

"I've cleared it with her lieutenant. Sergeant Hastings will have them for you at the desk."

Cragen replaced the receiver without waiting for her reply. He ignored Munch's indignant frown and left the interview room.

_I'll let Munch explain to Couch the reason for his call... if he wants to admit I don't trust him or Otten... it's fine with me... because it's true...._

"The Crib"  
Sixteenth Precinct  
16 July

When Otten returned with the Munka files, they went through that case's info and her notes in the interview room. John kept everything strictly business, ignoring his desire to ask about Fontana.

_That speaker on the wall behind me crackles faintly when switched on... and Cragen switched it on the second she entered this room... so, instead of Joe, we talk about Daniel Munka... he left a Cub Scout meeting at his church to visit the little boy's room and never returned... his body was found the next morning in the bed of a utility truck parked near Ninth and West 206__th__...._

Munka's case notes prompted Otten to mark one more sighting of the brown-haired man on the white board.

_The church's secretary told Detective Atwood she saw a Caucasian man in jeans and a blue wool shirt near the back entrance earlier that evening... she thought he was Dumpster-diving and shooed him away...._

Otten also spent a good part of the evening on her cell phone.

_Judging from the way Otten kept leaving the room to talk, those calls had to be from other family members... news of Joe's firing must have hit the grapevine... that's just what she needs right now—another reason for them to chew her out...._

Cragen left at eleven past midnight, but John decided to err on the side of caution and hold his tongue until he and Otten were in the crib. He slid his cell phone under his pillow, its alarm feature set to vibrate at 6:30 a.m., then he stretched out and waited for Otten to finish her nightly routine.

_I am so damned sick of this room... scratchy sheets, pillow stuffed with extruded chemical foam, the funk of pressure, stress, and sleep-deprived cops filling the air... not to mention the growing hole in my finances... I did not budget for laundry services, take-out for every meal, the cost of restocking the food currently spoiling in my fridge nor for the late fees on the bills I should have mailed this week... all this extra expense is somewhat canceled out by the alcohol not drunk by me at McMulllen's, but that goes on my tab... it won't help this month's spending...._

The thought of the ten C-notes hidden in the back of his squadroom locker tugged at his brain, but only for a moment.

_Those go back to Fontana... even if he doesn't seem to need them and I certainly could put them to good use... alimony is the difference between 'love them and leave them' and 'marry them and watch them leave me'... I should have stuck with the first method; it was definitely easier on the pocketbook...._

A wedge of fluorescent light cut through the gloom when the door to the women's locker room opened and Otten entered. She was wearing a navy tank top and gray cotton gym shorts; her hair was plaited behind her ears in two pigtails. John shook off his melancholy, and rolled over on his side to face Otten as she settled into her cot.

"I'm fairly certain Cragen hasn't bugged this place," he told her, "so we should be able to talk freely. What's going on with Joe? Did the brass really give him the boot?"

He listened as Otten expanded on what she told him that afternoon.

"When Green and I got to Joe's place, he was on the phone with Balzano."

"First Deputy Commissioner Balzano? Didn't he preside over Joe's hearing?"

"Yeah. Joe called him because they belong to the same club; he figured he could get the real story behind the hearing from him."

"And?"

"Balzano told him he was pushing retirement age anyway and, since he had enough outside income, being fired wouldn't be a hardship on him. Joe then chewed him out in both English and Italian before hanging up on him."

_Way to burn your bridges, Fontana...._

"And then?"

"Well, Ed and I listened to Joe rant for a while—he's completely justified, as far as I'm concerned. If there was a rule or reg followed, I'm having trouble finding it."

"Is Joe appealing? Strike that question—I already know you find him appealing."

Otten scowled at his joke.

"Joe said no one is taking his shield without a fight. He was about to leave for a meeting with his DEA rep to discuss how to proceed. That's why Green and I didn't spend much time at his place."

"Good for him. You tell him I'll help out in any way I can."

"I'll do that. Sooner or later, he's going to run out of steam and realize what really happened today. You standing behind him on this will mean a lot."

John rolled onto his back, giving his elbow a rest from supporting his weight.

_Great... I've impressed the NBC Peacock...._

A long pause followed her words. John was about to ask if something was wrong when Otten broke the silence.

"Connie called me. She said you spoke up for Joe and you told her the truth about his review. You got her rethinking her opinion about him. Thanks."

John smiled to himself.

_I sidestepped that land mine...._

"You're welcome," he replied. "Speaking of saying things, you should know that Cragen had me call Couch to verify you really were talking to Abu Saeed and not your partner with a fake accent."

Otten winced so blatantly that her pigtails bobbed on her shoulders.

"I was hoping things would get back to normal when we finish this case. Doesn't look like much chance of that."

John stared at the slat of the cot above him.

_No, the way things are falling apart... not much chance at all...._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
16 July

Munch's day started too early when his cell rang at 6:03 a.m. The call was from Sam McDowell, the Vitiligo Association's web master.

_Seven click-throughs already to Shanice's KidzBFriendz page... one from Australia, one from Taiwan, another from the Czech Republic, four from this country—Kansas City—the one in Kansas, Redwood City, California... and two from our area...._

He thanked McDowell for the info.

_Although another twenty-seven minutes of sleep and I'd be more grateful...._

Otten sat up the moment he poked her shoulder.

"We've got two IP addresses," he told her, "one in Union City, one in Manhattan."

She stared at him with bleary eyes.

"Are judges signing search warrants at this hour?"

"I doubt it."

"Then why are we up?"

"Early birds get the worms, Otten."

"Worms aren't kosher."

With that, she got up and headed for the women's locker room.

"First one dressed orders breakfast," John called after her.

'First one dressed' turned out to be him, so John phoned in the order. By the time Otten arrived in the squadroom, he had made coffee.

"Breakfast this fine morning will be the local deli's smoked fish platter with bagels, juice and coffee—all guaranteed to contain no worms. I also called Casey; she and her staff have our search warrants as top priority. She even pulled in one of the DA investigators to run the names associated with those IP addresses. That way, we can concentrate on Bennett Park."

Otten sank into her desk chair and yawned until her jaw crackled.

"Great. We take pictures at the park and compare them to DMV photos of people who looked at Shanice's web page. We get a match and _voilà__!_ We have our serial killer."

She raised her index finger as though about to make a point. John spoke quickly to cut her off.

"Don't say 'It can't be this easy'. If you say it, it won't be. Don't say it; don't even think it."

Otten folded her finger back into her fist.

"Okay, no jinxing the investigation—just coffee, breakfast, and finding who the new guys are."

The first of the two transferring detectives arrived at seven-twenty, before any of the rest of the shift had come in. He was not quite six foot with dark skin and dark hair. His leather jacket concealed his shoulder holster, and his desk and personal items were contained inside a banker's box.

Both John and Otten greeted him with a unison "Lake?"

"Yep," Chester Lake replied. "That's me"

"What are you doing on this side of the Bridge?" John asked.

Lake set his box on the floor by Munch's desk before sitting in his side chair.

"Complaining. Captain Rakemore called me into her office Wednesday and told me the Chief of Ds had reassigned me at the request of Captain Cragen. She called it a 'fay-tah complee'."

"But there's a wait list for SVU," Otten said. "I should know; I sat on it long enough. What about those people and what about your cases?"

"They're all SOL," Lake told her, "just like me. Pardon me for repeating it, but I didn't ask for this transfer."

"I understand," John told him. "From your point of view, it sucks. From my point of view, however...."

He leaned over to fish Lake's coffee mug from his box. "I'm so happy to see an experienced sex crimes detective that your first cup is on me. I'll explain everything after you get with Cragen and Benson."

Olivia was the next to arrive, bustling in at 7:25 as though she were late. After a quick greeting to her colleagues and a gesture towards Lake asking for patience, she put her bag in her locker.

"My apologies," she called over her shoulder. "I was hoping to get here before you. Let's head into the captain's office and get your paperwork going.

Lake leaned closer to John.

"If I refuse," he asked in a whisper, "can I go back home?"

Both detectives shook their heads. Lake gave an exaggerated sigh before slowly getting to his feet to follow Olivia into Cragen's office.

Fin arrived ten minutes later, followed closely by Elliot. Both griped about Friday morning traffic, complaints John missed due to another phone call from Sam McDowell.

"Two more click-throughs," he announced to Otten. "One in Tribeca, one from Staten Island."

Elliot paused between their desks, his dash for morning coffee halted by the unfamiliar term.

"Click-throughs?"

"It's from our fake web page," Otten told him. "People who click on the bait photo at the Vitiligo site and get sent to the KidzBFriendzpage are called 'click-throughs.' John thinks one of them will be our serial killer."

Elliot gave John a long, hard stare.

"Maybe," he said to the room at-large, "we should stop betting on John's absence excuses, and start guessing which investigative technique he'll pull out next."

Even Otten snickered at the suggestion. John glared at Elliot.

"I prefer to use my brain when catching criminals, not my fists."

Elliot grinned at him.

"Right, John. I'm sure Lt. Cutler will agree on that."

Elliot turned for the coffee pot while John mentally thanked him for the low blow.

_That punch was 'a thing of beauty' as Couch would tell you if he weren't off taking the sergeant's exam... you just watch, Stabler... watch while I close nineteen child murders...._

At five minutes to eight, Captain Cragen, dressed in his uniform, showed up. He was accompanied by a woman in her late thirties. Although no one looked at her directly, everyone, from Olivia still in Cragen's office with Lake, to Fin and Elliot at the coffee pot, checked her out.

John catalogued her attributes.

_Five feet eight inches, slender and athletic, short brown hair well-coiffed, slacks, blouse, and jacket expensive, but suited to the street... that box in her arms tells me she's moving in...._

A hiss from Otten drew his attention from the woman.

"Think that's Tullia?" she asked John.

He put an elbow on his desk and leaned toward Otten's desk.

"We decided Tullia," he whispered back, "was Don's pet name for Andrew Beale. If that's Beale, then he's had some very expensive surgery."

A glare from Cragen in his direction ended his speculation. The same glare, swept over the squadroom, gathered everyone to the captain.

"Good morning," he greeted them, ignoring the weak response from his detectives. "Let me introduce our new team members. I think most of you know Chester Lake, Brooklyn SVU. Shelly was good enough to let me steal one of her best."

Munch peered at Cragen while everyone else greeted Lake.

"_Shelly'? Since when did you start using Captain Rakemore's first name in an official setting? And, since I know 'Shelly' swears like a longshoreman, wonder what she's saying about you to her people right now?_

Cragen next indicated the woman who had come in with him.

"This is Donna Loudoun. She worked Special Frauds and, before that, Narcotics."

John checked his coworkers' responses.

_Fin's not impressed... if I were talking to him, I'd ask what he knows about her... Elliot's giving her a grin—you dog, I thought you were working things out with Kathy... Otten is looking her over carefully—smart, since we'll be using her today... Olivia doesn't look too happy... that's her 'making the best of it' smile... she asked me about a friend who wanted to transfer here... I think I told her Cragen would make sure we only got the best... I'm not sure that's true anymore...._

"Lake, Loudoun," Cragen announced, "you'll be working with Munch and Otten on their stakeout today. They'll show you the ropes. Any questions?"

The silence that followed served as their answer.

"Munch, you get the warrants lined up with Novak?"

John nodded.

"Good. I'll be at One P.P. until noon. Call me if you need me."

With that, Cragen left. Lake and Loudoun looked to their new coworkers for an explanation for his abruptness; the shrugs they received in reply did not appear to reassure them. Olivia beckoned Loudoun into Cragen's office for her paperwork while the rest of the unit got to work. Lake picked up his banker's box then asked John which of the two vacant desks was which.

"The farthest one was Fred's," John told him. "Tammy's was behind me."

Lake nodded. He then placed his box on Tammy's desk and began to unload his possessions.

_Nice touch, Lake... you know it's going to be awkward seeing new people sitting there... taking Tammy's desk makes it harder to picture her there instead of you... in a way, it hurts more, but it also helps us move past the grief of change.... _

"Hey, Judith," Elliot called from his desk. "You seen the Ledger this morning? Check out their website."

She started typing on her keyboard. Out of curiosity, John called the site up on his computer.

_Lead story... 'Cop Who Killed Kid Cop-killer Canned'... ouch...._

"Lovely," Otten groused. "The brass didn't waste any time getting that out to the press."

"The article lists four complaints of force in the past fourteen months," Elliot noted. "Makes firing Fontana look like the right decision."

"Only if you're not on the job," Fin chimed in. "We know he should have been suspended for a couple months then gotten placed on dismissal probation. Fontana could file against it—force the brass to reexamine their decision, or he could get the courts involved. At his age and with his history, it won't be easy."

Otten nodded. "They could drag it out until Joe's past retirement age or runs out of money."

Snorts of derision greeted her comment.

"Okay," she replied, "he's got money, but not enough to outspend the city of New York."

"Is Fontana going to fight this?" Elliot asked.

Olivia and Loudoun emerged from Cragen's office. While Otten told Elliot "Damn right he is," John stood up.

"Liv, is everyone cleared for duty?"

"Yes," she replied, "they're all yours."

John pointed at the interview room.

"Then let's get started."

The next hour was spent bringing Lake and Loudoun up to speed on the serial killer case. Lake took in the background information quickly and asked intelligent questions.

_No learning curve with him... but Don poaching him from Brooklyn SVU will bite us down the road.... they won't be as eager to help out and our next get-together won't be as jovial...._

Donna Loudoun sat on the opposite side of the table from Lake and Munch.

_Arms crossed on her chest... head tipped to the right... she's skeptical of my theory...._

While John briefed the two detectives, Otten verified their surveillance van and equipment requisitions for the operation. As soon as Otten joined them in the interview room, John addressed the objectives of the operation.

"We'll be looking for people who are at the playground for no obvious reason. We'll take pictures, and then follow them to their homes. If a suspect's address matches one of the addresses obtained from the Internet Service Providers, then we'll get search and arrest warrants for that suspect."

_I hope... I'll know for certain when Casey calls to tell me the judge signed off on this...._"

He handed Lake and Loudoun copies of the sketches of the brown-haired man from the case files.

"We're concentrating on men who resemble this guy, but don't ignore anyone obviously waiting for a child to show up—"

"—and who shows disappointment when she doesn't," Otten added.

"That, too. Our target has been searching for this kid for more than a year. I expect him to be there before noon today—in place and ready to pounce the second Shanice comes out to play."

"Sounds easy," Lake said. "How are you deploying us?"

"Otten and I are known in the area," John replied. "I live across from the park and Otten's parents live a block away so we'll take the unmarked cars and stick you with the park. CSU will work the surveillance van and handle the photo-taking; contact them if you see someone fitting the profile. If you get a live one, Otten and I will follow him on foot or by car and note the address he goes to. I'll decide who follows based on the means of transport."

"Foot patrols know we're working the park?" Loudoun asked.

"They've been advised. We'll use them if we end up with more suspects than we can track. You two can move around, eat lunch, pretend to read the paper—whatever makes you blend in."

Lake looked at Loudoun. "Sounds like an easy first day."

Loudoun frowned.

"Aren't you screwed if this guy doesn't check the Vitiligo web site? What if he isn't looking for this girl? What if he gave up already?"

All three SVU detectives spoke up at once, but Otten and Lake ceded the floor to John.

"He searched fifteen months before locating his Down Syndrome victim and almost a year for the albino one. This isn't a hobby to him; it's an obsession and he will use every tool available to find the victim who completes his collection."

"It's more like he's jonesing for his next fix," Lake said, "and not like him choosing his next mark. Think of Narcotics, not Fraud."

Loudoun grinned at the allusion to her background.

"So, serial killers are the SVU equivalent of addicts," she said. "I can handle that."

John caught Lake's attention and raised an eyebrow.

_I hope you're going to explain the facts of SVU to her...._

Lake nodded.

_Good... she needs to know ASAP...._

Chambers of Judge Lena Petrovsky  
New York County Supreme Court  
100 Centre Street  
16 July

Casey Novak stood before the wide oak desk and tried not to feel like a pupil called to the principal's office.

_I know judge's chambers are designed to be impressive... judges like to cow attorneys and feed their judicial egos...._

"So, Novak," the older woman greeted Casey, "what is it this time?"

Casey Novak ignored the dismissive words and handed over the warrant requests.

_She has to read them anyway... it's faster to let her skim it before answering her questions... there will be plenty of them... Petrovsky can barely handle e-mail... this stuff is 'way beyond her...._

The farther Petrovsky paged into Casey's requests, the deeper her puzzlement grew. Finally, she stacked the papers neatly before her and tapped them with her forefinger.

"You want one for every Internet provider whose customers look at a kid's web page?"

"No," Casey corrected her. "I need one only for each person who goes to a specific Bfriendz page via its link on the Vitiligo Foundation's web site. We're interested in one path and one path only. Anyone reaching that KidzBFriendz page by accident or via a search for words or phrases used on that page is beyond the scope of this request."

Petrovsky considered her answer for several seconds longer than Casey thought necessary.

_Why couldn't a younger judge be on warrant duty this morning? Why do I always get stuck with the Luddites?_

"Do you have sufficient cause," Petrovsky asked, "to believe that a person who reaches this web page using that one method will match the description of the person of interest in this investigation?"

"Yes, your Honor. We're also verifying the people who live at the addresses obtained through these warrants against DMV records, and against a list of visitors to the park playground mentioned on the web page. Only those persons who view the web page, match one of the physical descriptions of possible suspects from the nineteen open cases, and who also visit the park will be questioned by police."

"And the rest of the information obtained will be destroyed?"

"Of course, your Honor."

Petrovsky reached for her pen.

"I liked it better," she told Casey, "when the police stuck to cameras and direct eyeball surveillance. This Internet stuff—it's too much like science fiction for my taste."

Casey opened her mouth to assure the judge. Petrovsky spoke first.

"I know—it's bad enough the law can't keep up with technology. It's worse when judges refuse to."

She signed the four warrants, one for each of the IP addresses given to Casey by Munch.

"Will there be more of these?"

"Detective Munch estimates no more than ten; that's based on the average daily hits on the Vitiligo Association's web site."

Petrovsky capped her pen and cradled it in her hand as though comforted by its simple technology.

"I'll give him some wiggle room on that estimate. I don't trust your average daily hits any more than l like the current Top Forty hits."

The judge smiled to show she had cracked a joke. Casey forced a polite laugh.

_Stay on her good side... it's hard enough to find it...._

"Good one, your Honor and thank you for these."

"You're welcome, Casey. Next time, bring me something simple."

_How about a request for an arrest warrant for a serial killer? If Munch is right, you should have one forthwith...._


	12. Bennett Park: part two

A/N: Any inaccuracies in the description of Bennett Park and its surroundings, the NY Subway system, or in police procedures are for the purposes of this story and not because I made a mistake. (If you believe that, go check out the "For Sale" sign on the Brooklyn Bridge.)

Manhattan Schist: a metamorphic rock that comprises the bedrock of Manhattan. The highest point in Manhattan is an outcropping of schist at Bennett Park.

"Life Underground" is a collection of bronze sculptures created by Tim Otterness and installed in the 14th Street station.

524 Fort Washington Avenue  
16 July

From the paperwork for Operation Schist, a name Munch could not resist.

Requisitioned Vehicles:

One (1) CSU photography van with NYPD logos masked with CableVision signs:  
Time vehicle required: 10:00 to 18:00 hours from 16 July 2008 (Friday) to 20 July 2008 (Monday). Should operation conclude sooner, requisition will terminate at end of operation.  
Deployment: Vehicle will be deployed at 134 Pinehurst Avenue opposite north entrance to Bennett Park for purpose of photo surveillance of suspects.  
Personnel/Technician(s) required: Two CSU technicians during the deployment hours of 10:00 to 18:00 daily.

Ford Taurus unmarked car:  
Time vehicle required: 10:00 to 18:00 hours from 16 July 2008 (Friday) to 20 July 2008 (Monday). Should operation conclude sooner, requisition will terminate at end of operation.  
Deployment: Vehicle will be deployed 134 Pinehurst Avenue opposite north entrance to Bennett Park for purpose of surveilling suspects.  
Personnel/Technician(s) required: None. SVU personnel will utilize this vehicle.

Ford Taurus unmarked car:  
Time vehicle required: 10:00 to 18:00 hours from 16 July 2008 (Friday) to 20 July 2008 (Monday). Should operation conclude sooner, requisition will terminate at end of operation.  
Deployment: Vehicle will be deployed at 524 Fort Washington Avenue opposite east entrance to Bennett Park for purpose of surveilling suspects.  
Personnel/Technician(s) required: None. SVU personnel will utilize this vehicle.

Requisitioned Radio Equipment:  
Four (4) Two-way radios keyed to SVU frequencies. Radios to be used by SVU personnel.  
Six (6) sets of acoustic tubes and sleeve microphones for above radios.

The radios were for Munch and Otten, Lake and Loudoun, and Larsen and Reinholdt, the last four sharing two radios since they would not be working at the same time.

CSU's role in the operation was to photograph anyone indicated by the SVU detectives. These photos would be compared to the DMV photos garnered by the DA investigators from the addresses obtained from the ISP subpoenas. CSU techs also would produce copies of the target of the operation once his identity was determined.

_Always good to know what the guy you're bringing in looks like... keeps us from cuffing the wrong person...._

Otten had the first Taurus, a blue car with no discernible air conditioning. She was parked behind the Sprinter van, a spot that gave her a view of the entrance into the park and both Pinehurst and W. 185th Street.

_Anyone leaving the park through that entrance will go past her... she can either follow on foot or, if he parked his car on Pinehurst, she can follow him south on the one-way street... if he parked on W. 185__th__ or on Fort Washington north of me, I'll follow him...._

Munch had parked his Taurus, a maroon one with a faint smell of stale body wash, facing north in front of the Fort Tryon Jewish Center, just south of the subway entrance. Although he had a poor view of the playground, his position was chosen so he could follow someone leaving the park from the east entrance.

_We're leaving the third entrance, the south one on Pinehurst, uncovered... it's the furthest from the playground, so that's probably okay... if someone heads that way, Otten can pick up the tail and CSU can watch the entrance until I move Lake or Loudoun to cover it...._

The car's police radio, its volume turned down until it matched the ambient street noise, served as background noise.

_Two hours since we got here... it's almost twelve-thirty... Lake goes to lunch first... he'll eat while Loudoun watches solo... he was supposed to relieve Otten for her lunch, but she grabbed something at her parents' house on her way back from tailing a suspect... when Lake comes back, he'll relieve Loudoun so she can relieve me... when I get back, then she'll eat... tough for her, but she's the new guy... Dill and Emmons in the van will take turns so I don't have to concern myself with their schedule...._

Inside the park, Lake and Loudoun were the spotters of the operation. They watched the people around the swings and the playsystem....

"_Playsystem"... an ergonomically safe structure designed to maximize child enrichment and fun... I can almost hear Fin spitting as he says that word... he'd prefer kids climbed trees, and built forts out of scrap lumber and binder twine... a recipe for broken collarbones, splinters, and tetanus shots... damn it—I sound like my mother...._

Every so often, Lake and Loudoun shifted their positions on the benches inside the playground fence and those lining the walkway around the playground. Loudoun had a book of sudoku puzzles for cover; Lake was using the sports section and some fantasy baseball cheat sheets.

_Appearing in-character is important for exposed surveillance... if you look like you should be at the location, then no one will question why you're hanging around for so long...._

John shifted in his seat before checking his rear view mirrors.

_Plenty of elderly men and women... younger women with their children... nannies with someone else's children... teens coming here to hang out... a few people are beginning to show up to escape work and enjoy lunch in the park... _

He also had spotted several of his neighbors. Sima Navab, who lived with her husband in the apartment next to John's, walked past his car on her way to the Metro station and her job managing a boutique in Chelsea. Anna and Leo Weber, long-time friends of John's late uncle Morrie, crossed the street in front of his car, their slow arm-in-arm stroll taking them around the park and home in time for _The Price is Right_, Anna's favorite game show. Aub Strong, one of the countermen at the deli on W. 181st Street, ran past at half-past eleven with a white paper bag in each hand.

_The delivery boy must have forgotten Mrs. Strauss' standing brunch order... she'll threaten to take her business elsewhere... Aub knows she won't—Lena Strauss has been buying his pastrami for forty-three years... not one of these people I know so well has noticed me... you'd think they would wonder why I'm sitting in a parked car, but no—they all walk by oblivious to their surroundings... just as well, I suppose, but that makes them easy marks for people who aren't as nice as I am...._

The morning had seen three brown-haired men who fit Operation Schist's parameters. The first was a park employee; Lake thought he had spent too much time watching the girls going in and out of the restroom. Dill took a photo of him emptying trash cans while Munch called the Park Department to obtain his name and home address.

The second was a man in khaki slacks and a navy jacket who hurried into the park through the east entrance not long after the detectives arrived. Loudoun saw him pause at the gate to the playground for a moment before turning around to leave. Dill barely got a shot of him before he was obscured by park greenery as he bolted for the east entrance.

_Did he forget an important appointment or was he disappointed at Shanice's absence? _

John followed him on foot to an apartment building in the 700 block of W. 187th Street. He noted the address then passed it on to the surveillance van so it could be marked on the man's photo.

_If he's not our guy, we forget him and all I get from this is some exercise...._

The third, a man in gray slacks and a white golf shirt, arrived at eleven a.m. He sat on a bench near the water fountain for almost forty minutes. Loudoun told John he was reading The Economist, but occasionally would glance at the children playing on the swings.

_Otten followed him to Holyrood Church on Fort Washington.... I'm betting he's not our guy, but not because of his address... looking up from his reading if the kids get noisy isn't unusual or suspicious... I do that while playing chess with friends here—a extra-loud shout, a cry caused by a skinned knee... we're hard-wired to response to distress... now, if this man were obsessed, he would stare at the playground and glance at his magazine...._

The radio clicked and Lake's voice sounded in his ear.

"_Judith just got back so I'm heading for lunch. Call me if you need me back here."_

John triggered the microphone threaded down his sleeve and clipped by his cuff. Feeling a bit like a cut-rate spy, he replied, "Will do."

He dug his cell phone from his pocket and called Otten.

"Munch," he said when she answered. "What was for lunch?"

"_Gärtner Rösti mit Raclette._"

"What?"

"Fried potatoes and vegetables with melted cheese. You want any? Louisa said she'd make you some if you're interested."

John wasted no time accepting the offer.

_By now, the food in my fridge has developed sentience, and is plotting against me for leaving it in the cold and dark for so long...._

"Tell Louisa I'll be by in an hour. Later."

He picked up that day's Ledger and, with one eye on the park entrance, returned to his reading.

Bennett Park Playground  
16 July

The afternoon dragged by with only two interruptions. Otten followed another brown-haired man to a law office on Cabrini Boulevard because Lake had observed the way he stared at the little girls on the swings. John had listened in via radio while Lake pointed out to Loudoun the newspaper strategically placed on the man's lap, hiding both his crotch and his hand.

_We had to let this one go... bigger fish to fry and all that... we're required to destroy all records from this operation, but nothing says we can't remember this guy... if he's not molesting little girls, he's definitely thinking about it...._

John then tailed a woman in scrubs to a veterinary clinic on W. 181st Street.

_The scrubs were a Scooby-Doo print, not the green or turquoise of the woman in scrubs from the Munka case... but she was watching the children play so we can't rule her out...._

Ten minutes after four, Lake left the park to meet up with Greg Larsen. They exchanged radios then, after a quick equipment check, Greg wandered into the park.

_Looks like he's carrying a college textbook...._

John keyed his microphone.

"SVU One to SVU Four—Greg, what are you reading?"

"_Macroeconomics," he replied. "I'm working on my MBA on-line."_

"Ambitious."

"_Yeah. I'd rather wrestle alligators, but there's no college credit for doing that."_

Five minutes later, Loudoun left the park. After handing off her radio to Reinholdt, she came over to John's car and got into the passenger seat.

"You need to stretch your legs?"

The show of consideration from the new guy brought a smile to John's lips.

"Euphemistically speaking," he replied, "I've been needing to stretch my legs for a while now."

"Figured. My last partner was about your age. Long stakeouts were a burden on him, too."

John's smile drooped into a grimace.

_Thanks, Loudoun... if my bladder weren't so full, I'd tell you how out of place age jokes are in our unit...._

He left the car and hurried into the park to the public restroom. When he was finished, he took a turn around the playground.

_Greg is by the swings... Otten in her car... Jason is sitting by the playsystem, blatantly watching the nannies and the mommies... another way to fit in with park denizens—ogle the good-looking ones...._

The sight of an elderly man sitting alone on a sunlit bench brought John to a halt.

_White hair crowned with an ancient fedora, thin frame covered by a white shirt, gray slacks, black dress socks, and white walking shoes... Nathan Hirsch... lives in the apartment building across Fort Washington from mine... he worked with my uncle Morrie at the Fulton Fish Market for fifty-two years and was his closest friend... I let him beat me at chess for that reason...._

John reversed his path and headed for the east exit from the park.

_Nathan will want to chat and, since he's deaf as a post, answering his questions means either lying to him at the top of my lungs or shouting the news of a serial killer to everyone in the park... best if I take the long way back to my car...._

He stopped by the CSU van to check on Dill and Emmons.

"We're doing fine," Dill told him. "No word yet on matches between our photos and the ones the DA's guys are digging up."

He then stopped at Otten's car to find her playing solitaire on her cell phone.

"You look as bored as I feel," he told her.

"Bored," she said as she nodded, "border, bordest. I could go for a Bordeaux right now."

_A pun? Surely you jest...._

"That's borderline funny, Otten," he replied, leaving a pause for her groan.

John next sauntered the length of the park on W. 185th, keeping a sharp lookout for friends and acquaintances. When he returned to his car, he thanked Loudoun for giving him the break.

She glanced at her watch before saying, "Any time. See you _m__añana_."

John waited until she was hidden by other pedestrians on the sidewalk before grimacing.

_So I kept you waiting... that's what today is all about—waiting... waiting for our suspect to show up... waiting for Casey's people to serve their subpoenas and then wait for the ISPs to supply the requested addresses... waiting for a match... waiting for a warrant... it's all boredom and waiting... like most police work; there's nothing exciting about it...._

He settled back in his seat and resumed his waiting. Twenty minutes passed, the only interruption a radio exchange between Greg and Jason to discuss whether a young man with brown hair and two kids in a tandem stroller should be followed.

_Consensus—no... he's too young to have been murdering in 1994.... _

Twelve minutes later, Nathan Hirsch appeared at the top of the park entrance stairs. For something to do, John timed his descent on the two sets of seven steps.

_Three seconds per stair... not bad for a man in his nineties...._

He angled the outside mirror so he could watch his friend head towards home.

_I owe you a chess game, if only so I can stop feeling guilty about ignoring you...._

His earpiece crackled, a sign of an incoming signal.

"_SVU Two to SVU One," Otten called, "got a target heading your way on 185th—right age, brown hair, and he just spent the last fifteen minutes staring at the playground from the sidewalk in front of the Hebrew Tabernacle. You on him?"_

John shifted back to face the dashboard. A block ahead of him, a cluster of people were crossing Fort Washington at the light.

_They're all wearing skirts and heels except one...._

"SVU One—jeans, light blue shirt?"

Otten answered in the affirmative.

"He just turned south on Fort Washington," John replied. "Further announcements as events warrant."

John rolled up the passenger window then he raised the driver's window.

_He walks past the car... I wait a few seconds then get out to follow him... like I need another long walk today... why can't you perverts drive?_

The man made his way toward John's position.

_Pace steady but not hurried... we wrote on Shanice's page that she plays in the park in the afternoon... it's almost five p.m. but this guy doesn't seem upset about her absence... maybe he was reconnoitering the playground before he comes back for Shanice tomorrow or the next day... and maybe he likes looking at playsystems...._

As he drew closer, John removed the ignition key.

_Okay... another fifty feet and I get out, lock the car and fall in behind him... easier to do so now without being spotted than earlier... more people filling the sidewalks on their ways home...._

Twenty-five feet from John's position, the man turned left into the subway entrance.

_Shit...._

John scrambled from the driver's seat and slammed the door shut.

"SVU One—subject is taking the subway."

_Good thing I do this daily... and we're both going against the afternoon flow...._

He wove his way through the people between him and the entrance, sidestepping those departing the station so he could reach the elevator before its doors closed. With a nod to the operator on his stool, he took a position against the rear of the car, facing forward and never making eye contact with the man in the jeans and light blue shirt.

_Stare into space... ignore the target, the two teen-aged girls, and the middle-aged woman with the iPod... spend the time it takes to descend twelve stories listening to the battery-operated radio by the operator's feet... Kenny G butchering "Round Midnight"... must grit my teeth and remember it's all in the line of duty...._

When the elevator doors opened, John hung back to let the others leave first before mirroring his target's path and actions: he removed his Metrocard from his wallet, swiped it at the turnstile, then followed the man down the stairs to the platform for the southbound train.

_We're taking the A Train, which should be here any second now...._

His target headed for the southernmost end of the platform. John selected a spot one car-length from him. When the train arrived, he entered the second car and stood by the door, angling his body to keep his suspect in sight, his hand griping the stainless steel handrail.

_If you're really our guy, you won't head to Brooklyn or Staten Island... I can stand up the length of Manhattan if I have to, but I'd prefer you didn't live in Battery Park...._

Other than keeping his gaze fixed on the man in jeans, John followed the standard etiquette of the subway rider.

_Don't make eye contact... don't make physical contact... be very aware of everyone around you... that man making his way along the car may be looking for a woman to grope or a bag to grab at the next station... he'll dash out with it just as the doors close and hope the victim can't react fast enough to follow...._

He silently urged his fellow passengers to be law-abiding.

_I can't follow my suspect, and protect and serve you, too...._

In the first car, the man had taken a seat in the center of the car. He removed a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket.

_A printout of Shanice's KidzBFriendz page, perhaps? That would make life easier...._

The man stared at the paper for the entire ride, not looking up from it until the train left the Twenty-third Street station; he then refolded the paper and put it back in his pocket.

_He's treating that paper very carefully... and he just stood up, so he's getting off at the next stop... 14__th__ Street, where he either hits the sidewalk or transfers to the L going to Canarsie... please don't go to Brooklyn... I need to move—I've been standing for over half an hour...._

His target failed to read John's mind. Upon departing the train, he headed straight for the Eighth Street station and the L train platform. John again took his position one car length from the man. While waiting, he called Otten.

"I'm at Eighth Street enjoying Life Underground," he said, referring to the collection of bronze statues installed in the station. "Want me to pet the alligator for you?"

"_I like the phone face better," she replied. "You heading for Brooklyn?"_

"I hope not. Any word from Casey?"

"_Yes, and it's negative—no matches with the addresses we supplied."_

"I may have something useful for her. Later."

He pocketed his phone just as the L pulled into the station. John assumed the same position in the second car as before. This time, he did more than gaze at his target.

_If you're our guy, your comfort zone is Manhattan... all your murders were committed on the island... so stay in Manhattan... don't go to Brooklyn... get off before the East River... don't go to Brooklyn... don't go to Brooklyn...._

Whether the mental telepathy prompted him or not, the man got off at the First Avenue station.

_From the bottom of my feet to my aching hip—thank you...._

John stuck close to him as the departing riders filled the platform, knowing the younger man would draw ahead as they climbed the stairs. By the time they reached the street, John was a comfortable thirty feet back and his hip had loosened up enough to walk with relative ease.

_What I want tonight is a long, hot bath, not a tepid shower in the locker room... damn Cragen and his restrictions...._

The target turned south on First; John kept his distance while they covered one block south, then two blocks west to Avenue B. John followed the man south again until the man paused in front of a door by a candy store to dig into his pocket.

_Red brick five-story walk-up... we're two blocks from Tompkins Square Park, where the first victim was found.... that's promising...._

He waited for the man to enter the building before calling Otten.

"I surfaced in Alphabet City," he told her. "Address is 206 Avenue B. Have Dill send the photo to Casey ASAP. I have a good feeling about this one."

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
16 July

By seven-thirty, all four detectives were back in the squadroom. Larsen and Reinholdt were at work on their other cases. John was catching up with his email over another meal of take-out Chinese.

_Should have asked Louisa for a doggie bag...._

Otten was on her cell phone at her desk. She kept her voice low so it wasn't until she slammed the phone against her blotter than John noticed the flush of anger on her cheeks.

"Smashing your phone doesn't stop wiretaps," he said. "The government can still listen in via ruggedized circuits developed for the CIA."

Her gaze swung from her phone to bore into his face.

"You really believe that?"

He peered at her over his dark lenses.

"You doubt my veracity? No, don't answer that. It's safer if you remain ignorant. Were you talking to Fontana?"

"Yes."

John braced his feet and pushed, sending him and his chair across the aisle to her side.

"What's wrong? What makes you want to destroy official NYPD property?"

She looked at the phone on her desk then she frowned.

"While I'm stuck here hoping your plan will close these cases and get us off the captain's shit list, Joe has been having lunch with my uncle Bob, dinner with my parents, and breakfast with Dante, Janet, and their girls."

She rolled her eyes at what she considered Fontana's audacity.

"I don't understand," John told her. "Didn't your son suggest he make himself available so your family could get to know him?"

"It's not only that—he's also making arrangements for me to fly to Chicago and meet his family on my next day-off, assuming I ever get a day away from here."

Her frown deepened as her hands tightened into fists.

"I told him any plans involving me damn well ought to be discussed with me first. That should be obvious, but no—he just assumes he knows exactly what I want."

John opened his mouth, but Otten kept speaking.

"I know—with everything that has happened, it's not like we've had any time to talk these things out, but still—this is like training a puppy."

John closed his mouth.

_Huh?_

His confusion halted Otten's rant in its tracks.

"Didn't you have a dog when you were little?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Mom thought it would make Bernie and me allergic."

"What?"

John shrugged in reply.

"It didn't make any sense to me, either. So, tell me—why is Joe like a puppy?"

"Well, when you get a puppy," Otten explained, "you have to train it: don't pee inside; don't eat the shoes; don't jump on people—all that and more so the puppy can be a good dog. When that dog grows old and dies, the next puppy you get doesn't know any of the things you taught the first dog. You have go through the training all over again; don't pee inside; don't eat the shoes, et cetera. David knew this stuff, but Joe doesn't so now I have to train him."

The mental image of Otten shouting "Bad doggy!" at Fontana while he chewed on her dress heels shot a spasm of laughter up John's windpipe. He clamped his jaw and forced it into a strangled cough.

"You okay?" Otten asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I need to call Casey."

He propelled his chair back to his desk and picked up his receiver.

_Otten gives new meaning to the phrase "All men are dogs...."_

Casey Novak answered on the third ring.

"_John—I was just about to call you. That address in Alphabet City? It's a match to one I got from . My office is faxing his DMV and ISP info to you."_

"Great," he replied. 'When can we get the warrant?"

"_The second Judge Petrovsky signs it. I'm at her office now."_

Casey's voice dropped to a whisper.

"_She stayed late especially for this. Next time you're in her courtroom, remember this."_

"I'll remember. Thanks, Casey."

John replaced the receiver then stood up, a motion that attracted everyone's attention.

"Otten," he asked, "are you interested in arresting a serial killer?"

Residence of Ronald J. Lewayne  
200 Avenue B, Apt. 3C  
16 July

The faxed info from Casey gave the entire shift a laugh, albeit a dark one.

_Ronald James Lewayne... glad I didn't take Huang's bet about being named "Wayne" ... it's not a coincidence and it's not a conspiracy—more like a grim cosmic joke...._

Lewayne's DMV photo showed a man in his early forties, with his thinning medium brown hair cut short. His pale blue eyes stared straight ahead and he had made no attempt to smile for the camera.

_I could say he looks like a hardened killer, but that would be me projecting my knowledge of his crimes onto the photo... truth is, he looks no different than any other middle-aged white male whose license photo I've seen... a bit worn down by circumstances, but nothing out of the ordinary...._

As soon as the arrest and search warrants were posted, John printed a copy of each then he and Otten headed for the Ninth Precinct. There, they met their assigned back-up and told them of his plan for picking up Lewayne.

_Five stories, no elevator, narrow halls... not my idea of fun if things go to hell... it's almost ten o'clock and his light are on, so he's home... a simple knock on his door... a request that he step into the hall so we can ask some questions... I won't say "piece of cake' for fear of jinxing this...._

John as primary, would go first with Otten behind him. Payne and Sutton, the two uniforms from the Ninth Precinct, had the rear. Two more uniforms, Falanga and Black, were at the fire escape that served the apartment.

_This should be simple... our guy has no history of arrests or complaints... no reason to believe he's likely to give us any trouble... but we bring back-up anyway... I know too well how badly arrests can go...._

There, on the scuffed linoleum of the second-floor landing, its width too narrow for both John and Otten to stand side-by-side, John paused to listen to the sounds of the building.

"There's people talking above us," he whispered to the other three. "A man and a women. Just in case it's our guy, you two—"

He pointed to the two officers.

"Stay at the landing. We don't want to crowd him into bolting."

Both officers nodded. John trudged up the remaining flight of stairs, Otten at his heels. She had her weapon drawn and was holding it close to her thigh as she climbed.

_Available, but not obvious... I hope to do this as easy as possible...._

As he cleared enough height to see the third floor hallway, his hopes sagged.

_That's Lewayne on the right, closest to us... same light blue shirt and jeans as earlier today... the woman is Hispanic, early twenties, holding a mesh grocery sack in her left hand and a key ring in her right... both doors are open... Apartment 3B is on my left, so she must belong to 3D on the left..._

John flipped open his shield case and held it out before him.

"Mr. Lewayne?"

At the sound of John's voice, both people turned to face Munch. The same suspicion and curiosity tightened their brows.

_Good... he's not jumpy at our arrival... now, if his neighbor would remember her groceries need putting away...._

"I'm Detective Munch. This is Detective Otten. Could we ask you a few questions?"

He heard Otten reposition herself a few inches to the right.

_Making sure she has a clear shot if needed...._

Lewayne tensed at the request.

"Is this about the fight at the school yesterday? I didn't see it; I was in the teacher's lounge."

_Thank you for that opening...._

"We have to talk to everyone," John assured him. "Ma'am, if you don't mind...."

The young woman scowled at his choice of honorifics before saying "G'night" to Lewayne and entering her apartment. As soon as her deadbolt locked, John approached his suspect.

"Actually, Mr. Lewayne, this isn't about the fight."

He stopped before the man and took a half-step left, giving him a clear view of Otten and her Glock. Lewayne's eyes went wide as John pulled his jacket lapel out to show the warrant in his pocket.

"It's about this warrant for your arrest. Turn around and face the wall."

The abrupt switch from assurance to command, coupled with the firearm aimed at his chest, stunned Lewayne. He stood still, his mouth agape, his eyes staring fixedly at Otten, until John grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"I said, 'Face the wall'."

John shoved him against the plaster and held him there with his left hand while he grabbed his cuffs and snapped them around Lewayne's right hand. The man made no move to hinder John's actions as John cuffed his left wrist or while John handed him over to Payne and Sutton for transport.

"Manhattan SVU, care of Detective Brewster," he told them. "He'll tell you where to put him—and thanks, guys."

He turned to Otten, who had holstered her weapon and was peering into Lewayne's apartment.

_Time to find out if he kept souvenirs...._


	13. Souvenirs

A/N: there's some foul language in this chapter.

Imprecations: curses; invocations of evil against someone or something

Residence of Ronald J. Lewayne  
200 Avenue B, Apt 3C  
16 July

Although some walk-ups are architectural gems, Lewayne's one-bedroom flat was nothing spectacular: narrow foyer/hallway that ran the length of his flat, a tiny kitchen to the right, then a bath. The bedroom shared a wall with the bath, its door opening into the room at the rear of the flat. Furnishings included a small table and two chairs in the kitchen, a coat rack and table in the hall, a sofa, desk with a computer and chair, and two full bookcases. A cheap TV/VCR combo sat on a low stand in the corner of the living area, and a full-sized bed with dresser and nightstand occupied the bedroom.

_This guy makes me look extravagant.... _

Wall art consisted of a wall covered in framed depictions of the City's bridges and a collection of crayon and tempura paint projects matted in bright construction paper over his desk.

_Makes sense... the DA guys' report said he teaches second grade at PS 041 in Greenwich Village... must be his students' work...._

The fax from the DA investigators also had informed them that Lewayne had not changed his address since 1993.

_A long-time resident with a good job... his public defender will use that at his arrangement to fight his being remanded... we need to counter those arguments with proof of his guilt...._

Now that Lewayne was in custody, John asked Officers Falanga and Black, who had been watching the fire escape, to bring the super to Apartment 3C, and then canvass the floor.

"When he comes and goes, what kind of neighbor he is—you know the drill. Also ask if Lewayne has ever had a child visit him; if the neighbor says "Yes," then I want to talk to him, her, whatever."

In the meantime, Otten, protective gloves on her hands, had searched the narrow kitchen. John joined her as she was closing the cabinet door under the sink.

"Archetypal bachelor," she commented from her position on the floor. "Canned soups, frozen pizzas, basic cleaning supplies—all of it generic or inexpensive. He doesn't splurge on anything, and everything is neat and clean."

John offered her a hand. After a moment spend examining it for traps, she took it and scrambled to her feet.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

John snatched the back of a kitchen chair, spun it around, and sat in it.

"When the building super gets here," he said, "maybe we'll learn something useful. Did you call CSU?"

"Yes. I warned them that they may be looking for fluids from 1994. They weren't happy."

"You think he did only the first victim here?"

She leaned against the sink and shrugged.

"Wouldn't someone notice if he brought nineteen healthy kids up and took nineteen dead ones out again?"

_That's really cold, Otten... and a good question...._

"If his neighbors noticed anything," he replied, "and if they tell the officers canvassing about it, we'll find out. Want me to take the bathroom?"

"So I can help you off the floor?" Otten asked, but didn't pause for his answer. "I got it; you take the hall."

Neither area took long to search. John checked the pockets of the overcoat and windbreaker hanging on the rack then sorted through the mail on the table.

_Nothing personal... no cards or letters, only bills and ad circulars...._

A rap on the open door interrupted him. He turned to see a stout woman in her late fifties in a navy blue sweatsuit, her hair cut short and dyed red. She had refreshed her make-up and, judging from the cloud of Obsession knock-off that assailed his nostrils, she also had dumped a bottle's worth down her ample cleavage.

_There's a line between alluring and desperate... this woman passed it miles ago...._

Judging from the way her smile broadened when her gaze met his, John's repugnance was not mutual.

"You the detective who wants to see me?" she asked. "I'm the super, Vickie Sullivan."

John nodded as he took out his notepad and pen. To his left, he heard Otten scrambling to her feet so she could join the interview.

"What can you tell me about the tenant here, Ronald Lewayne?"

"He's been here longer than everyone else. No trouble—no trouble at all. He teaches grade school so he goes to work early, and sometimes comes in late. Summers, he works at the public library, so his hours don't change much."

John wrote down the info. "Does he have any visitors?"

"Men or—"

Sullivan paused to bat her eyelashes at John.

"—women?"

"How about 'both' or 'either'?" Otten chimed in.

"Not at the same time," the super replied. "He don't have many visitors—in fact, I can't think of the last time anyone came to see him."

"Have you ever seen him with a child?"

The super shook her head. "Naw. He don't have no family and wouldn't he get enough of kids at work?"

"Probably."

John started to reach for his card case, but another look at the super's parted lips and come-hither eyes changed his mind.

"Thank you, Ms Sullivan." he told her. "That does it for me. Otten, give Ms Sullivan one of your cards in case she remembers something later."

He ignored the super's sigh of disappointment and the curt manner in which she snatched Otten's offered business card from her hand. As soon as nothing remained of the super but the scent of cheap perfume, John turned to Otten.

"Don't laugh," he told her. "Not now, not later."

She settled for a big grin. "Can I tell Connie she has competition?"

John peered at her from under his lenses, hoping the display of superiority would shut her up.

"You finished with the bathroom?" he asked.

"Yes, she replied, although her grin did not fade. "Nothing but a couple of copies of _NEA Today_. You want the bookshelves or the computer?"

"If it's not locked, the computer. Otherwise, CSU gets to handle it."

John went to the desk while Otten began running her finger along the line of VCR tapes under the TV.

_Generic desktop with a Windows sticker... let's see if it's sleeping...._

He wiggled the computer mouse. Nothing happened. He pushed the power button and the computer began to boot.

"Anything on the tapes?" he asked.

"A couple of comedies and some generic porn," Otten told him, "nothing child-related. All the labels match the sleeves. If we find a video camera, we'll have to check each of them again."

John nodded. "Anything in the VCR?"

"Nope."

She swung around and began to examine the bookcases. When the boot sequence brought up the login screen, John hit the Enter key. With a tinny blare of music, the operating system began to load.

"Idiot," he said. "Lewayne doesn't have a password on his computer."

"Another sign no one ever comes over," Otten commented. "Why protect something no one else uses?"

John snorted to show his contempt for such folly. "To keep people like us from reading his files. A carefully chosen password would slow us up for hours, maybe days."

Otten squatted before the bookcase and began to flip through the books on the lowest shelf.

"And your passwords are designed to foil all governmental spying?"

"Damn right," John told her. "I never know when Homeland Security might decide I'm a risk to world security."

He could hear her eyes roll from across the room, but Otten kept silent. John opened Internet Explorer and checked the browser's history records.

"He visited both the Vitiligo website and our KidzBFriendz page first thing this morning."

Otten sat back on her heels. "Then we got him. Let's leave this for CSU and go do some questioning."

John planted his feet and scowled down at her.

"I want the book. I want his souvenirs. Screw systematic searches—let's rip this place apart until we find "Not All Kids Look Alike" all dog-eared and covered with Lewayne's fingerprints."

She turned back to the bookcase. John hovered over her to double-check her work.

_Paperback westerns... lots of teachers' editions of classroom books... educational textbooks... collections of worksheets for homework... bulletin board idea books... guy doesn't have much of a life outside the classroom...._

They both shifted to the other bookcase, which held more of the same, plus a shelf filled with children's picture books. Otten examined that shelf, left to right, stopping to pull one book from the shelf.

"Here we are," she announced. "Margery L. Chase's _magnus opus_."

She handed it to john, who flipped through its pages.

"Damn it," he said. "No photos. No scribbled notes about hunting down these kids."

"Hey, Detectives?"

The two officers sent to canvass joined them in the room. Black handed John a stack of notepad sheets covered in writing.

"Everyone in the building knows him," he reported. "They say Ron Lewayne is quiet and doesn't have much of a social life. Sounds like a sociopath to me."

"To me," Falanga added, "he sounds like a native New Yorker. Nobody mentioned ever seeing him with a kid. You want us to canvass next door, too?"

John pocketed the notes. "No. You wait here while we finish up then secure the place until CSU arrives."

Both men nodded. While they called in to their precinct, John and Otten entered the bedroom.

_Guy made his bed... what kind of man lives alone and makes his bed?_

You take the closet," he told Otten. "I've got the dresser and nightstand. Don't stop searching until you find something tying him to the murders."

She opened the closet door.

"Will ten pairs of blue jeans count?" she asked. "He must wear them to school; there's only two pair of dress slacks here."

"Keep searching."

He ignored her muttered "No need to get grouchy" as he looked over the few items on the dresser.

_Plastic bowl for loose change... his keyring, wallet, and cellphone—no saved messages and only four stored numbers: PS 041, V. Sullivan, Cheryl, Jim—the last two friends or family? Worry about that later...._

He slid the three items into an evidence bag.

"I've got his wallet, keys, and cellphone."

"Noted."

John quickly opened each of the four drawers.

_All filled with clothing...lots of white t-shirts... here's a small box containing a watch, some loose keys, a couple of agate marbles... not much in the way of keepsakes...._

"You finding anything in there?"he asked Otten.

"Clothes," Otten's reply came muffled from the back of the closet. "Sneakers, overshoes—four-buckle Arctics, and this."

She backed out of the closet on her hands and knees, dragging with her a tan metal file box with a handle on its lid. She sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the box to examine its contents.

"Title to his car," she told John, "1991 blue Volkswagen Passat. Here's the lease for his apartment, college transcripts, instruction book for his TV, two stacks of photos...."

She shuffled through the first one before handing it to John.

_Small boy with two adults, one male, one female... on the back it reads, 'Edward and Gloria with Ronnie, '72'... looks like a backyard... next we have Ronnie standing on a stoop with the same woman and a different man maybe three years later... caption is written in a child's hand, 'Me and Mom and Uncle Jim at his place on my birthday 10 years old'...._

There were several more photos of Ronnie. One included Uncle Jim's wife Peggy and their three sons, none of which looked thrilled about standing next to their cousin. The last photo showed Ronnie holding his high school diploma. John noted that, over the course of time, the space between Mrs. Lewayne and her son widened...

_..which is normal... growing boys stop leaning on their mothers..._

...at the same rate as the space between Uncle Jim and his nephew.

_Good... that makes it less likely Jim is the 'funny' kind of uncle...._

The second stack of photos showed Lewayne with a young woman at various locations.

_Reading on the grass, posing on granite steps, both in caps and gowns—arm in arm and not a care in the world...._

"You know where this is?"

"Brooklyn," Otten replied. "Williamsburg College. The woman in those photos probably belongs to these."

She handed up some more papers. John read through them.

_Marriage license for Ronald James Lewayne and Joyce Edna Whitley, dated June 23__rd__, 1987... and a divorce decree ending said marriage dated April 4__th__, 1993... well, April is the cruelest month...._

He read through the papers with a practiced eye.

"Lewayne must have been represented by a low-functioning moron. These terms aren't just unfair—they're extortion."

"It does explain his standard of living."

"Yes, it certainly does. Anything else?"

Otten held up two more photos and a sheet of notebook paper.

"That's the last of it," she told him.

The first photo was of Lewayne and his wife with two children, one a baby wrapped in a pink blanket in Joyce's arms, the other a little girl in a pink nightgown sitting on her father's lap.

_According to the back of the photo, the baby is Chelsea and the toddler is Courtney... photo taken in 1990... wonder if the cracks in the marital bliss facade were starting to show?_

The second photo showed Lewayne's daughters standing by a huge tree trunk. Both girls looked to be first or second graders, and they wore bright blue t-shirts that read "Crabapple Hill Ravens."

_The caption reads, 'The girls at school—Darien, Connecticut, Sept. 1993', which puts them a long way from PS 041.... Joyce Whitley must have done pretty damn well after her divorce...._

He handed the photos back to Otten so he could look over the notebook paper.

_Printed by a child... awfully long letter for a five-year-old... maybe she copied it from someone else... it's dated November 20__nd__, 1993_

"Dear Daddy," he read aloud. "Thank you for inviting me to spend Christmas with you, but Mommy and Daddy Frank are taking Chelsea and me to France. Chelsea and Mommy say hi. Love, Courtney."

He held the letter out for Otten to take.

"Man, that's cold," he said.

Otten nodded. "And quick, too. They divorce in April and there's a new daddy with tickets to France by November."

"Lewayne gets screwed over in his divorce," John noted. "His wife has a rich second husband waiting in the wings up, and his kids waste no time dumping him for private schools and European trips. No wonder Lewayne felt like killing."

"That sounds like motive to me. You find anything tying him to the murders?"

John turned back to the nightstand.

"Working on it. Could you bag those papers?"

While Otten placed the photos and paper s in evidence bags, John examined the nightstand. Its top held a small lamp with a parchment-colored shade and a clock-radio set for 5:30 a.m. Its drawer was more interesting.

_Another paperback... a shoehorn... instructions for the clock-radio... a sheet of paper folded to fit a shirt pocket—I think I've seen this before...._

He unfolded the paper.

"I've got Shanice's picture."

"Great."

He rummaged deeper in the drawer. At the very back, his fingers found a stack of stiff, slick paper.

_Photos!_

He pulled them out and stared at the top one.

_Judy May, a dark-haired girl with dark brown eyes... she's standing by that sofa... not really smiling, but not really scared—probably wondering this man took her from her mother to pose for a photo...._

On the back of the photo was written a date and name.

_'Cordelia, 2/6/94'..._

The next in the stack showed a young boy seated at a school desk in a classroom.

_'Ryan, 5/10/94'... this is Michael Doyle and that must be Lewayne's classroom... safe choice—who would suspect a teacher in his classroom with a kid?_

John quickly shuffled through the rest of the photos. Every one matched a victim and a drawing in the picture book; all but the first were taken in the same classroom. He sank onto the edge of the bed and fought a sudden surge of nausea.

_I came up with this theory... I fought like hell for it... I assured everyone that I was right... but to hold the proof—to look at it and realize exactly what it means...._

Otten came over to stand next to him.

"You find something?"

John held the stack of photos. Otten took them from him. As she riffled through them, her face went pale and she began to tremble.

"All these children," she whispered. "I want him dead."

"What?" John asked, uncertain he had heard her correctly.

She handed him the first two photos from the stack.

"I want him dead," Otten repeated. "I want his neck snapped by someone twice his size—someone he knows and trusts. I want his body dumped in Tompkins Park then I want him resurrected so he can be strangled and dumped in a trash can like the garbage he is."

John jumped to his feet as she thrust the photo of Marika Bourantas, the third victim, into his face. The rest slid from her hand to land scattered on the bedspread.

"I want him brought back to life again so his neck can be broken a second time. I want his body left to rot in a warehouse until he stinks so bad even the crackheads can't stand the smell. I want him killed again and again and again. I'll do it myself, if I have to. It isn't enough to let the court and _HaShem_ bring retribution on him. I want him to suffer the same way they suffered."

Otten stood there, shaking to the beat of her fury, blind to John's presence not three feet from her. Her arms were outstretched before her, one hand ready to strangle Lewayne, the other to snap his neck.

_She's caught by nineteen dead children, all frozen forever in photos, the last thing seen by their eyes the hands of Ronald Lewayne reaching for their throats... she sees them and thinks of the children in her life... I understand the feeling, but she's being a mother right now—not police...._

"I know," John said, his voice thick and harsh. "He should feel every second of the terror and pain he brought to those kids. He should live with the same hopeless sorrow that their parents will bear for the rest of their lives."

He reached for her hands and held them in his.

"But Judith, it's not ours to do. Let revenge drive you and you'll lose everything good. You become no better than the scum we catch."

He waited for the truth to sink in, for her hatred to drain away.

_You know this... all those years in Homicide—you either learn this or you crack...._

Gradually, her breathing smoothed out and her trembling ceased. John released her hands and she lowered them to her sides.

"I'm okay," she assured him. "It's just...."

Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard before continuing.

"I never really believed your serial killer theory. I went along only because I didn't have a better one. Even after we found that book, and this guy visited the Vitiligo web page, and then showed up at the park, it still seemed unlikely."

She shook her head at her own blindness.

"When you handed me these photos, it became real—real like a slap to the face. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped.

John examined her expression and posture, making certain she wasn't hiding anything.

_You've been through a lot—Operation Chestnut, Lau, Fontana, me, this case... I know Couch is worried about you... I also know you're murder police, best of the best...._

"If you're alone with Lewayne," he asked, trying for a light touch despite the seriousness of his question, "are you going to stomp him?"

Otten drew in a deep breath before answering

"No," she told him. "Retribution is not mine. I only bring them in for someone else to try and convict."

John smiled at her.

"It's like crabs. We catch 'em. Someone else cleans and boils them."

Judith raised an eyebrow at him.

"So I eat crab," he admitted. "If you'd grown up in Bawlmer, you'd eat them, too. State law requires their consumption."

He turned to gather up the scattered photographs from the bed.

"Let's put these in a bag, and go nail that fucker."

Hallway outside Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
Sixteenth Precinct  
17 July

It was after midnight before Munch and Otten returned to the station house, but several detectives from Howie's shift, Greg and Jason included, had hung around to watch Lewayne's interrogation.

_Nothing like a good show to draw in the crowds...._

More amazing to John was the presence of both Captain Cragen and Casey Novak. They were dressed casually: Casey in jeans and a moss green t-shirt, Cragen in tan chinos and a maroon golf short left untucked. Cragen looked over the evidence that he and Otten had brought back with them then he asked if they were ready.

"See if you can put this away quickly," he told them. "The Deputy Commissioner will want his arrest to make the morning news."

Both detectives nodded. Either Cragen didn't see or he ignored their tight smiles.

_No one watches the Saturday morning news... you just want the Public Information Office to have plenty of time to work up their glowing media release about soon-to-be-promoted Donald Cragen and the fine work done by Donald Cragen's unit capably led by Deputy Inspector-elect Donald Cragen...._

Casey's concerns were more on-point.

"What you guys did is great," she told them, "but in court, this could look like a sting operation to catch a stalker. Lewayne's lawyer could exclude the book and photos from evidence on the basis that it's all coincidence—I'm not saying this will happen, but I want to be prepared."

John glanced at Otten, who was sighing at the imposition.

_Yeah, I know—that's not what she said when we set this up...._

"So," he asked her, "You want us to convince a serial killer to sign a confession admitting everything? Couldn't you ask for something easy—a real moon rock from the faked moon landing or maybe a videotape of J. Edger Hoover dancing the can-can?"

Casey smirked at him. "Color or black-and-white?" she asked

With his bluff called, John returned to the main topic. "Has Lewayne asked for a lawyer?"

Casey shook her head. "Nope. He's been waiting patiently for you guys. Good luck."

With that, she went to join Cragen, Howie, and the other on-lookers at the observation window. John steered Otten to the corner, where a banker's box sat on the floor.

"This guy has been sitting patiently for over an hour without demanding a lawyer? You believe that?"

Otten shook her head. "He's clueless or he wants to talk. Either way makes it easy on us."

John leaned his shoulder against the wall.

"Want some coffee before we start this?" he asked.

"I'd rather break for some later. If we need to shake up the rhythm, a coffee run will do that."

"Sounds good to me. Now, I want you playing the bad cop for this. It's a good bet that whatever made him a serial killer included an overbearing female—either a mother or his ex-wife, maybe both."

Otten's slight shrug signaled her assent.

"Being attracted to the same type of woman who raised him makes sense. So, am I domineering and strict beyond belief or cold, distant, and withholding of my affection?"

John considered the choice. "Go with the first. You can always switch if he doesn't bite. I'll play off you, and start acting like a friend if he wants one."

"Judging from his contact list and lack of visitors, Lewayne doesn't need friends," she reminded him. "Plus, Huang said it's impossible to cozy up to a serial killer."

John straightened up and shook his arms to settle his jacket sleeves on his wrists.

"Lewayne may not be a social animal, but all human beings, even sociopaths, want to tell someone their stories. For this guy, I'm all ears."

Before Otten could make a crack about the truth in his statement, John continued.

"You got everything?"

She nudged the banker's box with her toe in reply. John bent over to retrieve the victim photos, sliding them into his jacket pocket.

"We're agreed on the method?" he asked. "We'll start wide and draw the noose tighter as we go?"

Otten nodded. "I'll begin with his stalking of Shanice and work up to the murders from the picture book. Hell be ready to blow by the time I hand him over to you."

John smiled back at her.

_You got it... this hump doesn't stand a chance against us...._

Sixteenth Precinct Interrogation Room  
Sixth Floor  
17 July

For a change, all the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling fixtures were working. The glaring light cast knife-edged shadows across the floor, and washed all the color from Ronald Lewayne's brown hair and eyes. It also darkened John's lenses.

_Usually, masking my feelings is a good thing, but I need to connect with Lewayne for this to work, not keep my distance...._

He made a mental note to remove his glasses the first time Lewayne looked to him for support against Otten's tactics.

_I look so much more cuddly without them...._

The required legalities took a few minutes. Lewayne watched Otten place the banker's box at the far end of the table, and he listened to her introductions without comment. John took a seat at the end of the table on Lewayne's right, choosing the side where his hand was cuffed to the table. Although he rested his arms on the table top, John did not slide his chair and knees under the table.

_If he comes at me, I want to get out of the way as quick as possible...._

Otten positioned herself across the table from Lewayne, standing with her legs firmly planted and her arms folded across her chest.

_Like a short, round dominatrix... Lewayne edged back in his chair when she glared at him—that's good...._

After Lewayne had signed a form affirming that he had been read his Miranda rights Otten started the questioning. As planned, her abrasive manner and demeaning language infuriated Lewayne.

"Mr. Lewayne," Otten said, her voice more nasal than usual, "you're a second-grade school teacher at PS 041. You've been a second-grade teacher there for twenty years."

Lewayne's head jerked back as though slapped.

"You make that sound like a bad thing," he protested.

John mentally agreed.

_Nice play on 'second-grade'... it sounds even worse in a Brooklyn accent—like nails down a chalkboard..._

"Not at all. Obviously, you have found your niche," Otten replied, her manner all oily and disdainful. "Now, we have proof you were checking the Vitiligo Association's website for someone like Shanice. We observed you at Bennett Park where she likes to play. We found a photo of her printed from her KidzBFriendz page in your apartment. A detective on this squad observed you examining that photo while traveling from the playground...."

As she detailed the evidence against Lewayne, his agitation grew. His back stiffened and the fingers of his right hand, the one cuffed to the table, began a nervous drumming against the wood.

"Stop that!"

His fingers froze and he glared back at her, but he said nothing.

_No wonder you started killing children... you don't know how to stand up for yourself...._

"As I was saying," Otten continued, "we found said photo in your apartment along with your important papers and other items of interest."

She paused to reach inside the banker's box and Lewayne glanced sideways at John.

_Gotcha...._

John slipped his glasses from his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose to excuse the motion. As he set them on the table, he met Lewayne's gaze and quirked the corner of his mouth up for a moment.

_Look apologetic... act like I'm sorry for what Otten's doing to him...._

Lewayne's mouth twitched in reply.

_Good—we now share something in common... we both think Otten's a bitch...._

Otten reinforced the impression with a snide smile as she laid Lewayne's divorce papers in front of him.

"Looks like your wife hated being saddled with a second-grade teacher."

She walked around the table to Lewayne's side, and leaned forward to stare straight into his face.

"What happened? Did she find the fast track to success while you got stuck at second-grade? Did she find herself surrounded by wealthy, powerful men who made you look pathetic?"

Otten drew closer, a smile playing on her lips.

"Oh, Frank," she simmered, "you're much more exciting than Ronnie. He's a second-grade teacher. He lives in a walk-up in Alphabet City. He drives a 1991 Volkswagen. You have a big house in Connecticut and you take us to France. You're so much better than Ronnie. I'm glad I dumped him for you."

John hid a grimace at her generalizations.

_Careful, Otten... we're assuming the ex-wife and Frank stayed together... we don't know what the current situation really is...._

Lewayne drew his lips in until they formed a pout.

_Okay, you're on the right tack with this...._

"Joyce really screwed you to the wall. Alimony, child support—she has all Frank's money and all your money, too. Good for her. That's exactly what I would do if, heaven forbid, I was stuck with you."

With a flick of her wrist, Otten tossed the photo of his daughters on the table.

"Even your children love Frank more than you. Why wouldn't they? He buys them expensive presents and takes them exciting places. It's not wonder Courtney and Chelsea never visit you."

As Lewayne seethed, Otten moved back to the banker's box.

"And how fair is that?" she asked. "After all you did for your girls—you gave them cheap clothes and toys bought on-sale. You took them to visit your relatives for vacation."

She reached into the banker's box and pulled out three picture books. Lewayne frowned as she set them in front of them.

"You read to them, just like a father does for his daughters. And what did they do in return? They dumped you like yesterday's garbage."

Otten pointed at the center book.

"'Not All Kids Are Alike'," she read its title. "I'll bet that was their favorite. A happy story about happy kids playing happy games. I'll bet Courtney and Chelsea couldn't get enough of this book. I'll bet you had to read it to them every night."

She leaned over the box, putting her face on a level with his.

"And then they left you, Ronnie. They left you and they were very happy without you. Your wife was happy. Frank was happy. Your daughters were happy."

She opened the book to the first drawing, that of a dark-haired girl having a tea party with her stuffed animals.

"Look at this girl. Look how happy she is. Are you this happy? Are you even half this happy?"

She paused, giving Lewayne time to consider his unhappiness before pounding him again.

"You're not happy, Ronnie. You're broke, abandoned, stuck teaching second-grade while your paycheck goes to Frank's fancy house in Connecticut. He gets your money and you walk up three sets of stairs after work every day.

She set her hands on her hips and sneered at him.

"You're exactly what Joyce said you were. Pathetic, useless, worthless excuse of a husband and father...."

John observed Lewayne through the entire tirade, waiting for him to blow, but the man sat in his chair and took every one of Otten's insults. Only the compression of his lips, a tightness that turned them white, showed his anger at being verbally castrated by the female questioning him.

_That should do it... back off and give him a chance to decompress...._

Otten tossed her head as though shaking off a bug from her hair.

"I'm going for coffee," she announced.

Before she could turn for the door, John cleared his throat and pitched his voice to sound weak and hesitant.

"Think you could bring me some?"

Otten glared down at him, her lip cùrled in scorn. John faked a cringe and told her the request wasn't important.

"Of course it wasn't," she snarled.

The moment the door latched, John began to mutter imprecations at her, keeping his gaze fixed on the table.

_Look beaten, pussy-whipped... show Ronnie he isn't the only one...._

"They're everywhere, aren't they?"

Lewayne's quiet question proved the bait had been swallowed.

"Damn right," John replied. "The NYPD is crawling with ball-busting bitches—not that you heard it from me."

Lewayne jerked his chin toward the door.

"That one sounds just like Joyce. She and the girls, always wanting, always taking. Didn't matter what I gave them, it was never enough. You ever been married."

John faked a huge sigh.

"Too many times. That alimony—man, it really sucks the life outta you."

"Damn right it sucks."

Lewayne slumped in his chair, the sour scowl on his face telling John how Otten's words were gnawing at him.

_Let them gnaw... let them eat at you until you're ready to spill your guts.... I can wait... I get paid to wait...._

John matched his expression to Lewayne's as he began silently to count the seconds. Almost a minute passed before Lewayne raised his head. He first glanced at the door then he met John's gaze.

"Would you like to know," he asked in a whisper, "how I got even?"


	14. Whistling Past the Graveyard

Interrogation Observation Room  
Sixth Floor  
Sixteenth Precinct  
17 July

At the observation window, six jaws dropped.

"Did he just say what I think he said?" Casey asked.

"Sounds like it to me," Brewster replied.

Greg nodded his agreement while Jason nudged Judith with his elbow.

"See? Even when hung in its closet, the Perv Jacket works miracles."

Her snort of disbelief was followed by a wager.

"Twenty says Lewayne spins Munch a story."

While the detectives haggled over the bet, Casey looked at Cragen. He was ignoring the chit-chat, his attention focused on the man cuffed to the table.

"Don, what do you think?"

Without shifting his gaze, he replied, "I think Lewayne's story will give us nightmares. That's the reason behind the betting; it's our version of whistling past the graveyard."

Sixth Floor Interrogation Room  
Sixteenth Precinct  
17 July

Inside the room, John struggled to keep his expression composed in the face of Lewayne's unexpected offer.

_You're kidding... that's all it took? Damn—you're easy...._

He whispered back, "You found a way to get even? Man, I gotta hear this."

Lewayne glanced again at the door.

"How long will she be gone?"

John waved away his concerns.

"Detective 'Rotten' refuses to drink our squad's coffee. She's off to JavaJones for a Coconut Mocha Latte. We have plenty of time."

_I can almost hear Otten laughing... she likes the squadroom coffee...._

Ronnie Lewayne shifted in his chair, getting himself comfortable. The motion tugged the cuff on his right wrist.

"Any chance you could...?"

He the sentence dangle while he pointed at the handcuff. John shook his head.

"Right now, we're just two guys talking. If I uncuff you, and she comes back early...."

He also let his sentence trail off.

_Lewayne will fill the blank with the threats his ex-wife threw at him...._

"Good thinking."

The pause that followed Lewayne's comment lasted long enough to worry John.

_Don't go cold on me—not now...._

John tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. The unspoken question served to prime Lewayne's pump and the man began to tell his story.

"Growing up wasn't much fun for me. My Dad was a long-haul trucker who, one day, he didn't come home. Gloria never told me why, and I already knew better than to ask her questions."

"Gloria?" John asked.

"My mother. She didn't like being called 'Mom.' She said it made her feel domesticated. She was a writer, mostly for magazines. She needed silence to concentrate so I had to be quiet around the house—not TV, no friends over, no loud games. I couldn't play an instrument in the band because she wouldn't let me practice. I spent a lot of time reading in my bedroom—no radio, because the walls were thin."

"Sounds like Gloria really cramped your style."

"I didn't mind being a book worm. If you keep your nose in a book, you don't have to hassle with other people. I spent a lot of time in my room, reading or daydreaming about my dad—where he was and what he was doing."

He leaned closer to John.

"I used to tell people my dad worked for the CIA. I'd tell them he was a master of disguises, and he traveled all over the world spying on people. I told them I got secret messages from him through the TV—you know that colored square that sometimes shows up before a commercial starts? That's how he got his messages to me."

John stifled an urge to laugh.

_Daydreaming and isolation are two of the three most common childhood characteristics of a serial killer, the third being compulsive masturbation... you can skip describing that one for me...._

"Anyway, when I was ten, we moved closer to my mother's brother Jim and his wife. My cousins didn't like me—I wasn't good at sports, and I got better grades than they did. Aunt Peggy worked the late shift and wasn't home much, so I spent a lot of time with Uncle Jim—helping him grade papers and such. I'm a teacher because of him. He was so good to me, I decided to follow in his footsteps."

John nodded.

_Your mother was a nut case and you were bad at sports—same as me, but I'm not a serial killer... let's move this along a little...._

"So you went to college and got your teaching degree. Did you meet your ex-wife while you were there?"

"Joyce? Yeah, we kept running into each other. Finally, I asked her out. Everything was great. She was smart, good-looking, popular—she knew what she wanted, and it really blew me away when she said she wanted me."

A wistful smile brightened Lewayne's face.

"When we graduated, she got a job as a business analyst at Fordyce, McClelland, and Brown, the big consulting firm. She wanted to start a family right away; she said it was best to have babies early so she could move up with the company as they grew. We had Courtney in 1989 and Chelsea a year later. It was tough, but we handled it, and everything was going really well—I liked teaching, and Joyce liked her job and the girls—well, they were the greatest thing that ever happened to me. You have any kids?"

John faked a sappy grin.

"Two of them—Elliot and Olivia, a boy and a girl."

"So you know what it's like to hold your daughter and see her smile back at you. Courtney and Chelsea—they were the only bright spots in our marriage. Turned out, the further Joyce went up the corporate ladder, the worse things got between us. She was always traveling out of town or spending her evenings wining and dining prospective clients—so what if I wanted to spend time with her?"

Lewayne slumped back in his chair. John followed suit.

_A show of solidarity on this one—not the rest of your shit, but I do know the pain of a failing marriage...._

"When she wasn't traveling, she was spending money: designer clothes and shoes, expensive purses and jewelry, day spas, furniture, paintings, cooking classes, _feng shui_, yoga classes—you name it and she bought it. I tried to go with the flow, but Armani suits aren't made for poster paints and recess, and her friends and colleagues hated me—I wasn't on their level."

A feral anger lit his eyes as he remembered those times.

"Nothing I had was good enough for her—not my job, not my clothes, not my parenting, not the sex—especially not the sex. It got to the point, when she'd come home from a trip, I'd head into the spare room, and stay there until she left again."

John nodded to show approval of his tactic.

_Sexual frustration.. more isolation... a social outcast from your wife's culture... you just keep piling up the indicators...._

"The only reason I kept going was Courtney and Chelsea. Joyce would leave town and it was just me and my girls. I'd drop them off at daycare before I went to work, and I'd pick them up again on my way home. We'd make dinner together, then we'd watch TV until bath time. I'd give them a bath together, and we'd blow bubbles, and I'd make funny shapes with the shampoo in their hair. Then, after they got into their pajamas, I sit on the couch, one of them on either side of me, and I'd read them a story before bedtime."

Lewayne's lips curved into a happy smile.

"Those were good times."

"Sounds wonderful," John prompted him. "Then what happened?"

Lewayne pursed his lips as though thinking of his girls had sucked the spit from his mouth.

"They figured out that their designer clothes and fancy toys came from Mommy, not Daddy. After they learned that, they didn't want my hugs. I'd try to blow on their tummies and make swirls with their hairs, and they'd push me away and tell me not to muss their outfits."

John shook his head at their selfishness.

_Sounds like your daughters were growing up... and you're a control freak who wanted them to stay babies forever... bad combination...._

Lewayne grabbed "Not All Kids Look Alike" and held it up for John to see.

"This was their favorite story book. They loved the pictures and kids playing games like they did. I read it over and over and over to them; they couldn't get enough of it. When they left me, they took the designer clothes and the fancy toys, but they left their favorite book behind. I brought it with me when I went to see them at their new school on Parent's Day. My girls were so busy with their friends, they didn't want me to read it to them."

John shook his head again. His sympathetic murmur was cut off when Lewayne slammed the book against the table.

"I got the message: 'Go to hell, Daddy. We don't love you anymore.' Goddamn bitches—just like their mother."

Lewayne glared at the book and the hairs on John's neck rose.

_That makes his daughters' rejection Huang's 'pre-crime stresser,' the reason he turned violent... he couldn't attack them, so he took his rage out on the symbol of his love for them—their favorite book... and the kids in it...._

"I don't know," Lewayne continued, "when she transferred to my school, but I remember the exact day when I first saw her. It was January 5th, 1994 at 11:45 a.m. Jacqui Simmons was walking her class to the cafeteria and she was sixth in line. I took one look at her and thought, "Hey—that's Cordelia, the English girl in the picture book. I know her."

Lewayne opened the book to her picture.

"Did you bring the photos I took of these kids?" he asked.

The off-hand question caught John by surprise. He pulled the banker's box to him and reached inside it.

_It can't hurt to give him the photos... at least, I hope not...._

Lewayne nodded his thanks before shuffling the photos until 'Cordelia' was on top.

"Every time I saw her in the halls, Cordelia was smiling just like she does in the book. She reminded me of my girls and how happy we used to be. I wanted to slap that smile from her face, and I wanted to hug her the way I used to hug my daughters. I'd go home and stare at this picture of her, and remember how my girls would snuggle up to me and listen to me read to them. I started thinking about reading the book to Cordelia, thinking about her snuggled up to me just like she was my daughter.

"One Sunday, I was out running errands and I saw Cordelia through a store window. She was by herself, just standing there by the entrance. It was my chance. I went up to her and said hello. She recognized me from school and called me by name—'Hi, Mr. Lewayne. Are you clothes-shopping, too?' We talked for a bit then I told her I had a book at home with her picture in it, and I asked if she wanted to see it."

"Did she?" John asked.

"It took a little convincing, but she finally came with me. We took the subway back to my place, and I showed her the book. Cordelia thought it was really neat; she even let me take a picture of her holding it, but she didn't want me to read it to her. She said it was a baby book. I told her it wasn't, and she said, 'Yes, it is, Mr. Lewayne. I'm reading 'Frog and Toad are Friends' by myself, and I only had to ask my mom about one word.'"

His eyes narrowed and John heard his teeth grind together as his anger grew.

_Judy May... half his height, a third his weight... she didn't stand a chance...._

"I picked her up and tried to shake some sense into her. She started yelling so I threw her down, and stomped on her neck to shut her up."

Lewayne's focus shifted downward as he followed the remembered path of the little girl from his arms to the floor. His right foot tapped the linoleum, and his eyes went wide.

"It worked. She stopped yelling."

"Wow," John said, hoping he got the right mix of awe and interest. "You really fixed her."

_Don't react... don't make a fist... don't slam it into his face...._

Lewayne chuckled.

"I thought I'd fixed me, too. Getting caught with a dead student in my apartment—yeah, she deserved it, but it's still not a good thing."

John swallowed against the bile in his throat. "What did you do?"

"I got a gym bag from my closet and a towel. She'd peed all over herself so I had to mop up the puddle before it stained the floor. I put her in the gym bag then, as soon as it was dark and I knew everyone was busy making dinner or watching TV, I carried the bag down the stairs. It was heavy, so I had to put it down to rest a couple times. On the way down, I thought about how to get rid of her. I figured, if I could get her to the park without anyone seeing me, I could dump her body there and no one would know what happened. Turned out, no one saw me so I was home free."

"What about the gym bag?" John asked. "The police didn't find one at the crime scene."

"I put that with the towel and her coat in a trash bag then I set it out at the curb. I kept an eye on the news and the papers, thinking maybe someone spotted me carrying her down the street, but no—I got away with it."

"You certainly did."

"Yes, I did. Funny thing was, after I got Cordelia's photo developed, I'd couldn't stop looking at it. It reminded me of how it felt to shut her up, to stop her from smiling all the time. My wife and girls did what they damn well pleased, but I had control over Cordelia."

He leaned so close to John that John could count his eyelashes.

"That control felt damn good. I figured, if it felt that good to get rid of Cordelia, then getting rid of Ryan should feel good, too. Doesn't that seem reasonable to you?"

"Sounds reasonable to me."

_Like hell it does, but what do I know? I'm sane...._

Lewayne drew back. He then pointed to the drawing opposite Cordelia in the open book before taking his photo of 'Ryan' from the stack.

"I hadn't seen him at my school, so I kept an eye out for him on my commute and while running errands. I also started traveling around Manhattan to check out other schools, playgrounds, toy stores—places kids might be. It took a couple months, but I finally spotted him in the yard at PS 191. I figured that he wouldn't be interested in picture books, so I had to come up with another plan."

He paused and raised an eyebrow at John.

_This is a test... he wants to know if I'm really paying attention, if I really care... damn right I care, but not about him...._

John folded his arms on the table top and leaned forward, feigning interest.

"What was your plan?" he asked.

A smug smile parted Lewayne's lips.

"Parents are always trying to get their children into better schools," he replied, "so I told Ryan his parents were transferring him to my school, and I was there to show him my classroom and answer any questions he had. I was surprised when he fell for it. He didn't smile as much as Cordelia, but he still seemed like a happy kid. I showed him around my school, ducking the few people who hadn't gone home yet. Finally, when everyone was gone, I took him into the boys' room. Since he wasn't screaming, I took it slower and strangled him."

Lewayne's pleasure at the memory increased as he told the story. By the time he got to the strangling, he was showing all his teeth in a huge grin.

"You want to know why I took him to the boys' room?" he asked.

John faked an admiring smile.

"Pee," he replied. "You knew no one would think twice about a puddle of urine in a restroom."

"You got it. That shows I know how to adjust my plans as needed. Since the gym bag worked the first time, I used another one to carry Ryan to my car. I decided to dump him a long way from the school to throw off the police. I drove around until I found a block with no one on it, and I dumped Ryan behind a wrought iron fence."

_Michael Doyle... found at St. Alban's Church... __don't you realize that these children have real names? Real families? Real lives—at least, they did until you killed them...._

"What about school security, video cameras, random people running into you and these kids?" John asked. "Didn't you worry about being caught?"

_Tell me how you got away with it... maybe we can stop the next fucker who tries this...._

"Damn right I was worried, but I was worried about nothing. I know what the security is at my school so it's no problem getting around it. When I was in public, I was very careful about waiting until no one was around."

He shrugged. "Not that it mattered. I never got caught."

"But you're here," John reminded him.

_The handcuffs, the badges and guns, the bars on the windows—in case you haven't noticed, you're in a police station...._

Lewayne shrugged away John's concern.

"We're just talking. You said so yourself."

John faked a reassuring grin.

"That's right; I did. Just two guys talking...."

_... except I'm police and I'm allowed to lie to you...._

Lewayne turned the page of the picture book before placing 'Ryan' on top of the first photo.

"Anyway, getting rid of Ryan went so well that I started looking for Melina. Since she was Greek, I concentrated on places near Greek restaurants and grocery stores. The same story worked to get her into my car, and I kept to the same plan, except I killed her in the girls' room."

_Marika Bourantas, age six... missing from the stoop in front of her apartment building...._

"I drove Melina up to the marina in Inwood. I didn't think it would take so long for her to be found. I almost missed it in the papers—after all, I'd gotten rid of two more children by then."

_Tindra Berge and Adnan Baghdadi... I want to rub your nose in their autopsy photos... make you really see what you did to them...._

John listened as Lewayne told the stories of his victims, pairing each one to the correct illustration and photo.

"Yumiko—she was the only one I took in the morning. I called in sick that day because I knew she walked past an alleyway that was perfect for me to wait in...."

_Tomoe Kimura... you dumped her in Bennett Park, right across the street from my Uncle Morrie's apartment, the one I live in now...._

"This is Demir, the kite-flier. I left him between two parked cars—just opened the passenger door and pushed hard. That was so easy, I used the same method with Reka and Tevinho."

_Bener __Çelik, Aroha Jackson, Fernando Lazaroni, victims ten, eleven, and thirteen... this wasn't easy—not for their families...._

Lewayne pointed at the photo of the Bolivian girl. It showed her standing by his desk in his classroom, cringing from the camera, her eyes wide with fright.

"Carolina didn't speak much English, so I picked her up and took her to my car with my hand over her mouth. I never saw her smile."

_Natividad Illamarca, his twelve victim.... the only thing worse than notifying a parent is doing it through an interpreter...._

"Each child I got rid of meant one less smiling face, one less child who had made my girls happy. Each time, it got easier, which made it more fun. I even varied how I did it—sometimes stomping on them like Cordelia, sometimes strangling them like Ryan."

_Find his victim... bring the child to the classroom... kill the child... dump the body... do it often enough and murder turns from a horror into a habit...._

John shifted his hands from the table to his lap. As soon as they were out of sight, he flexed and wiggled his fingers.

_The strain of not grabbing Lewayne's throat is giving them cramps.... _

"I've got to give you credit," John said, his voice carefully controlled. "You had this down to a science."

Lewayne bowed his head to accept the compliment before turning to his next victim.

"Togar now—he was a surprise. I was at the Natural History Museum for a meeting about summer classes when I spotted him on a field trip with his class. By this time, I was feeling cocky. I kept an eye on him and noticed how his teacher was spending more time on her cell phone than she was watching her kids. I decided to take my chances right then and there. I followed Togar back to the parking lot, where I diverted his attention and made him miss his bus. He got all upset so I promised him I'd drive him to his school. Instead, I bought him some pizza then I took him to my classroom and I got rid of him.

_Innocent Ngwane... you left him in a hedge on Chrystie Street... his teacher quit after he was found—she blamed herself for her student's murder...._

"Boitumelo was next," Lewayne continued. "I think he was my favorite because of he was wearing a Cub Scout uniform. I wanted to be a Scout, but Gloria's work meant she couldn't take me to the meetings. When I was done with him, I dumped him in the bed of a pick-up truck. You don't see many of those in Manhattan."

_Daniel Munka, the victim Atwood wouldn't give up... stop thinking about getting my fingers around his throat... there's only two murders left to go...._

"By now," Lewayne noted, "it was taking me longer to find each child. You'd think, what with the U.N. and all the thousands and thousands of immigrants in the city, finding Asian and African kids would be a snap—no pun intended...."

His smile had all the subtlety of an 'Applause' sign.

"Clever, Ronnie," John assured him. "You're quite the wit."

_Do that again and I'll remove your vocal chords through your ass, you sick son of a bitch...._

"But, the further into the book I went, the harder it got. It was a year and a half between Togar and Boitumelo, and another year and a half before I found Kyle."

_Kyle was Joshua Parkinson, the Down Syndrome kid... must have felt really good to mislead a trusting child like Joshua...._

"It's a good thing I took pictures of them. They gave me something to do while I searched for the next one."

_The favorite hobby of a serial killer... fondling their souvenirs while reliving their kills...._

Lewayne picked up the last photo, which showed a pale-skinned boy standing by his desk, his eyes glowing brilliant red in the camera flash.

_Christopher Homer, the albino child... he was older than the other victims—taller and heavier...._

"I almost blew it with Robbie," Lewayne said. "His mother caught me watching him, and she chewed me out right there on the street. I had to walk away and approach him later. Not that it mattered in the end. I still got rid of him."

John took a hard look at the photo in Lewayne's hands.

_This boy had the best chance to get away from you... if only you'd grabbed him first, before you had perfected your method... shit, if only one detective had seen your pattern sooner... if only... the two most useless words in the world...._

Lewayne set the photo of 'Robbie' on top of the others.

"Amanda will be the last one. Once I've gotten rid of her, I'm finished."

_You're so matter-of-fact about it... good thing it's me in here and not Otten—and that there are people watching me...._

"So, Ronnie," John asked, a hint of a jest in his voice, "what will you do next? Start over?"

Lewayne answered immediately, proving he had carefully considered his end game.

"I'm going to burn this book and the photos then send the ashes to my girls. I want them to see what they did to my happiness."

This time, John let his jaw drop, no longer caring if his honest reaction showed.

"Why?"

"I'm cremating their hate for me," Lewayne replied, savoring the phrase like a fine wine on his tongue. "I'm sending its ashes to them so they can see what they made me do."

He settled back in his chair with a smug smile, and waited for John's approval. John kept his features neutral as he gulped back more bile.

"That's some story, Ronnie. I'm glad you shared it with me."

"You wanted to know how I'm getting even. Did you learn anything from it?"

_Yeah—first thing tomorrow, I'm going to our database people and begging them to fix things so the next Ronnie Lewayne doesn't go unnoticed...._

John nodded.

"I sure did. Now, could I get a favor from you?"

"Of course."

John reached into the banker's box and pulled out a legal pad, then he reached into his jacket for a pen.

"Would you write all this down for me? It's a long, very intricate story, and I don't want to get any of the details wrong."

Lewayne considered the paper and the pen in John's hand.

"I've got something in return," John offered. "Photos of Amanda—photos that aren't on her web page. They'll help you locate her."

Lewayne's eyes brightened.

"In that case, sure—I'd be happy to."

He took the pen from John and began to write. So intent was he on earning the photos, Lewayne did not notice John grab his glasses and the banker's box then dash for the door.


	15. A Matter Now Closed

Interrogation Observation Room  
Sixth Floor  
Sixteenth Precinct  
17 July

John barged through the door, brushing past the officer entering to guard Lewayne. He came to a halt across the room, the box landing by his feet, his nose almost touching the rough green plaster. He stood there, unwilling to face the people he knew were staring at him.

_Nineteen children... nineteen girls and boys... all dead because his mother ignored him... his wife left him... his daughters grew up... Lewayne couldn't cope and nineteen children are dead...._

He heard his name and ignored it, too drained to anything but let his mind whirl....

_He wasn't a master criminal or a genius... he was stupid, stupid and lucky... and the same for us... lucky that we saw his pattern... and found the book... it wasn't brilliant police work—it was nothing but dumb luck...._

"Hey, Munch—you okay?"

Brewster's question anchored his roiling thoughts.

_Better act like nothing happened... they'll know I'm lying, but I have an image to maintain...._

John put his glasses on and braced himself before turning around to peer at his colleagues.

_Admiration from Greg and Jason... except Jason is posed on his toes, ready to bolt out of here and Greg has gone pale... Howie's gaze keeps shifting back to Lewayne... Otten and Casey look happy, but Casey just took a half-step toward the door, and Otten's smile doesn't match her glazed stare... they're all repulsed by Lewayne, sickened that such a stupid man could get away with so many murders...._

He looked past those five to the far corner where the captain stood.

_Cragen's got his hands in his pockets and he's staring at the wall behind me... this got to him, too... okay—it's time to crack a joke and pretend everything is fine...._

John drew in a quick breath and squared his shoulders.

"Well, that's done," he announced. "Do I win anything?"

His quip broke the tension, and prompted a round of nervous laughter oversized for its worth. Howie stepped up and clapped a hand on on John's shoulder.

"Munch, that was game, set, and match. Congratulations."

Howie's praise set off a round of compliments that also served as departing farewells.

_No one want to stick around and celebrate... they want to go find something sane and normal...._

Finally, when only Otten and Cragen were left with him, Cragen spoke.

"My office."

He spun on his heel and left, leaving the door open behind him. Otten shook her head at his departure.

"If this isn't enough for him—"

"It damn well ought to be," John groused. "I don't know how to top it."

He took a step towards the door, but Otten's hand on his arm stopped him. The gentle pressure turned him around until he was facing her.

_... and looking at Lewayne... whatever it is, Otten—make it fast... I've had enough of that psycho.... _

"John, that was good work."

Her simple compliment was paired with an approving smile.

_A big improvement over a snarl and a fist raised to hit me...._

He returned the smile.

"You, too," he told her. "Couldn't have done it without you."

Behind her, he saw Lewayne flip a page on the legal pad as he wrote out his story.

_Nineteen children... wonder which murder he's describing now...._

His sight blurred and his throat tightened until he could only whisper.

"I wish someone had done it sooner."

"Yeah," she replied, her voice just as raspy. "Me, too."

They stood together, watching Lewayne detail his crimes, until Judith gave John a shove.

"Enough of this," she said. "Let's go see what Cragen has for us. Dare we hope for a ticker-tape parade?"

John's chuckle echoed hers. "I'll settle for never seeing the crib again."

He bent over to get the banker's box then they made their way through the darkened hall and squadroom to Cragen's office. John glanced at the wall clock as he put the box on his desk.

_Almost three-thirty... so much for us getting home tonight...._

Cragen's office lights were on and he had taken his seat behind his desk. He waved the two detectives into his office then pointed at the side chairs placed across from him.

"Have a seat, Detectives."

John sank into his chair. His sigh of relief was cut short when Cragen reached for his lower desk drawer.

_Ah, yes—Cragen's bottle of medicinal vodka, good for what ails his unit... nothing like the feel of liquid fire down your throat to wash away the taste of scum-sucking slime like Lewayne...._

Before Cragen could open the drawer, John shook his head.

_Any drink I need that much, I'm better off not having...._

Cragen straighted in his chair and folded his hands on top of his blotter.

_Not a trace of warmth or welcome anywhere in his expression... damn it, Don—we just guaranteed your promotion—would it kill you to acknowledge it?_

"That was solid work, Detectives," he said, his eyes focused at a point centered between them. After pausing for them to say "Thank you, sir," he resumed his speech.

"I'm sure Chief Gordon will ask me to put you in for commendations. If that request comes, I'll comply, but not because you deserve it. In my opinion, medals should go to Howie and Couch, and to everyone who covered for you this past week.

He let the truth of his words sink in.

"You were ordered to work cold cases not for headlines, but to prove you could play well with each other. Can you?"

John glanced sideways at Otten, who had looked toward him at the same moment.

_We're as in sync as we'll ever be... more so than Fin and me, anyway...._

Their replies, also said in unison, appeared to satisfy Cragen.

"In that case," he told them, "you have fulfilled the terms of your discipline agreements, and this matter is now closed."

The flat stare he aimed first at Otten, then at John served as a warning to keep it closed.

_Don't worry, Captain—next time, you'll open Door #2 and throw me right into the jaws of Internal Affairs and Lt. Cutler...._

"However," Cragen continued, "your case isn't closed yet."

He pointed a finger at John.

_Here it comes... Captain Obvious telling us how to do our job..._

John put his brain on autopilot, letting it embroider Cragen's instructions,

"Put Lewayne on the bus to Central Booking and have his confession transcribed."

_... and give him those photos I promised him... not that he'll enjoy them for long—they'll get taken with his personal possessions during booking...._

"You'll be getting a call from Public Information for the press wire and Action Sheet info. You can also expect a news conference sometime late morning or early afternoon."

_...yeah, yeah... show up, look awake, make you look good...._

"Before that, notify all of the victims' families—phone calls will work for that."

_... I should call Detective Holtz... he might want to see Lewayne's arraignment...._

"Also notify Lewayne's ex-wife and daughters; do not let some asshole of a reporter get to them first."

_... 'Hi—we just arrested your ex for killing nineteen kids'... just what women want to hear at four a.m.... _

"After your paperwork is turned in today...."

Cragen stressed the 'today.'

"...you'll return to the regular rotation and work schedule. Any questions?"

_... no celebratory day-off? Can we at least get a nap first?_

John shook his head. Next to him, Judith did the same.

"Then, you're both dismissed."

Judith reached the squadroom first. Cragen followed John from the office before making a beeline for the hall.

"G'night, Captain—hope the bedbugs bite," Judith called after him.

John snorted at the bitterness in her voice.

_He'll be front and center at our news conference, claiming all the credit... the old Cragen would let us shine, but not this one...._

Manhattan SVU Squadroom  
Sixteenth Precinct  
17 July

_I was wrong about that one... Cragen not only gave us full credit, he also asked me to tell the nice reporters about everyone who helped us...._

John was at his computer finishing up his paperwork, a task also being performed by Olivia and Couch for their own cases. Chester Lake was at the glass wall reviewing recent Manhattan cases with Donna Loudoun. Fin had disappeared behind the sports page of the Ledger the second John sat down.

_Sitting down was a big mistake... if I were moving like Judith while she packs up the evidence and case info, I wouldn't be nodding off every couple of minutes... the only thing keeping me awake is will power and interruptions from colleagues offering praise...._

"That was some show they put on for that news conference," Couch was saying. "The Commissioner and Deputy Commissioners Balzano and Grady, Chief Fulton, Chief Gordon, Deputy Chief Byrnes, Bureau Chief Beale, Inspector Washington—lots of brass up there with you two and Cragen."

"Well," John noted, "success has a thousand fathers; failure only one."

"You can say that again," Lake joined in. "If Lewayne had had an air-tight alibi, you wouldn't be getting praise from the brass; you'd be getting reamed by them."

Fin's grunt sounded more like support for the reaming, and not a laugh at Lake's comment.

_Thanks, ex-partner... same back at you... I really should trade desks... maybe, if Cragen juggles the partner assignments, I can swap with someone...._

"You didn't talk too much, either," Couch continued. "Some people, you put them in front of a microphone and it's like they can't stop talking. You both know what to say and when to stop."

"I also know people who would disagree with you," John told him.

_Gwen, Nancy, Maria, Billie Lou, Gee, Gharty, Howard, Bolander, Cassidy, Jeffries, Tutuola...._

Olivia, her coffee mug in hand, stopped by his chair.

"Like the Deputy Commissioner?" she asked, too softly to be overheard.

John peered up at her.

"How so?"

"You couldn't see this because he was standing behind you but, when you said Fontana helped with your case, Balzano went livid."

John hooked his right thumb over his shoulder at Lake and Loudoun.

"I gave credit to everyone who deserved it," John replied, "those guys, Greg and Jason, the detectives who gave us their cases willingly...."

_That's a big 'screw you' for you, Atwood...._

"Joe deserved to be included," John continued. "I guess Balzano didn't expect to hear his name right then."

"Whether he expected it or not," Olivia replied, "both him and Beale looked pissed."

John stifled a yawn so he could ask the important question.

"How did Cragen react?"

Olivia shook her head.

"No problem that I saw. Fontana took out Fred and Tammy's shooter. We owe him for that, and the captain knows it."

John relaxed against the back of his chair.

_If Cragen's happy, then I'm happy... Joe needs some good press right now, but I also need to keep my job... and, speaking of Cragen...._

"Speaking of Cragen," John repeated the phrase aloud, "do you know he's seeing someone?"

Fin dropped his newspaper to gape at him. Olivia pinned her stare on him, and the other three detectives spun in their chairs to add their amazement to the mix.

_It's a shame Elliot's off today... I'd have top score on the 'WTF?' meter...._

"After the news conference," John told them, stretching out his explanation to heighten the suspense, "Cragen took off with Beale so I got his driver to give Judith and me a ride back here. On the way, Charlie told us Cragen is seeing a woman named Tullia Horne."

"She on the job?" Olivia asked.

"Nope. She's Councilman Baker's right-hand woman and get this—she is Balzano's sister. Charlie says Balzano doesn't know about it yet."

"Talk about living dangerously," Couch said.

Donna's puzzled stare was directed at Olivia, but John answered it.

"The First Deputy Commissioner is not fond of our captain. Someone should have warned you before you transferred in."

Lake scowled then turned back to the glass wall. John heard him mutter something about hightailing it back to Brooklyn. Loudoun pursued the matter.

"Pissing off the powers that be, getting chummy with lawyers, never being here—what is up with your captain?"

John turned to Olivia, an action mirrored by Fin and Couch.

_You're lead and her friend... you want to explain?_

Olivia ignored their expectant gazes to frown at Loudoun.

"Our CO," she replied, stressing the 'our' as a warning to the transferred detective, "has a shot at making Deputy Inspector. Yes, it affects us, but we get the job done no matter what."

She punctuated her last sentence with another frown. Loudoun raised an eyebrow, but let the matter lie. John picked up his mug and followed Olivia to the coffee pot.

"Your friend is rather blunt," he said as Olivia filled his mug with hot water, then hers with coffee.

Olivia glanced quickly at the detective in question. Loudoun was now reviewing the Eshan case with Lake. The photos displayed on the glass wall reminded John of Nurzai Eshan and his threat to kill him like a dog in the streets.

"Not that blunt is all bad," he added. "Some people need a good dose of blunt."

"Donna wasn't like this during training," Olivia replied. "Give her a week or so and she'll settle in."

John dunked a tea bag into his mug. "You know so or you hope so because we don't need another hassle right now?"

Olivia sighed so deeply, he was momentarily distracted by the ancillary effects of her deep breath.

"Earth to John," she said with a smile. "You going to make it to four o'clock?"

He faked a yawn, grateful she had taken his distraction as exhaustion. "I hope so. I'll finish my reports then go help Judith. Maybe moving around will help."

She patted his arm. "Let me know if you need a ride home. Napping on the subway is not a good idea."

He raised his mug in salute of her offer then returned to his desk. He was almost finished proofing his spelling when his cell phone rang.

"Munch."

"_Fontana," _came the reply. _"I called to thank you for mentioning me today. You didn't have to do that."_

"Actually," John told him, "I did. Not only do you deserve it, but Cragen said to list everyone who worked the case, and I'm not in a position to piss him off right now."

"_Well, I still appreciate it."_

John filled him in on the interrogation of Lewayne then he listened as Joe described the state of his termination appeal.

"_Everyone says Dworkin's the one I need, but he told a jury I torture suspects. For God's sake, why would I want a twerp like that on my side?"_

John recalled Casey griping to Fin and him about how Randy Dworkin had made mincemeat of her prosecution of a millionaire date rapist.

_We handed her a rock-solid case... that 'twerp' must be damn good...._

"From what I've heard," John said, "you could do a lot worse."

"_I hope you're right 'cause I just told my rep to find me another shrink, because I'm hiring him. Now, how's Judith doing?"_

John spin his chair to face the interview room. Judith had cleared the taped case summaries from the window. Through it, he saw her standing before a file cabinet, her cell phone to her ear.

"Judging from the way she's wobbling," he told Fontana, "I'd say she's about to fall asleep on her feet. How about you prevent a traffic accident by driving her home?"

Fontana jumped at the offer, and promised to be in front of the precinct house at four o'clock sharp. John ended the call and glanced back at Judith.

_She yawns any bigger, she'll swallow that cell phone...._

He gave the rest of his report a cursory read-through then he hit the Enter key to file it before going to help her pack evidence for storage.

Entrance to the Sixteenth Precinct  
17 July

After the shift meeting, John and Judith's trip from the squadroom to the elevator was interrupted by various detectives and officers, all wanting to congratulate them on their arrest.

_But not one of them offered to carry our luggage... don't they know words are cheap and clothes are heavy?_

Once inside the elevator, both detectives slumped against the back wall.

"I can't believe we have to come in tomorrow," Judith groused.

"You didn't work those cases for days off," John replied in a dead-on rendition of Cragen's tenor, "you worked them because exhaustion is so much fun."

When the elevator doors opened, they trudged past the front desk, Judith smiling back at the congrats called out to them, John nodding in response. Outside the main entrance, Judith immediately pointed south with a wave of her toiletry bag.

"I'm parked three blocks that—"

She then froze, her attention caught by the sight of Fontana leaning against a Parking Enforcement Cushman parked at the curb. His canary yellow shirt was worn untucked over tan slacks and his silver SL500, its top down, was double-parked behind him.

John sidestepped her to watch the show.

_I'm not sure who looks goofier—Joe with that sappy smile and glazed look in his eyes or Judith grinning like she's in front of a calorie-free Godiva display...._

Judith's arm dropped back to her side.

"Joe?"

Before he could step onto the curb, she dashed across the sidewalk and wrapped both arms around him. Joe's grin wavered....

_... nothing says 'I love you' like a toiletry bag to the kidneys..._

...then he folded his arms about her shoulders and returned the embrace.

_Awww... somebody needs a hug... either that, or some one to lean against while she goes to sleep...._

John spent a moment wondering what would happen if he hugged Fontana and began to snore.

_Probably wouldn't be pretty...._

Instead, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a white envelope, which he brushed against Joe's hand.

_This better not look like I'm paying Joe to take Judith off my hands...._

"One thousand dollars, returned in full," he said. "I appreciate you lending it to me."

Joe stopped nuzzling Judith's hair long enough to take the envelope.

"Anytime, Munch," he replied. "Remember, I still owe you."

Leaving Joe and Judith locked in their public display of affection, John slung his garment bag over his shoulder and began the two-block slog to the Metro station.

_Could be worse... no heavy rain... no snow and sleet... gooey green oobleck would be bad, too... not that I'm enjoying today's bright summer sun... no, not while I'm one hundred and fifty blocks from my bed and fourteen hours of uninterrupted shut-eye...._

He turned the corner and stopped dead, dazzled by a blaze of afternoon sun reflecting from a well-waxed copper-colored sports car. A figure stepped out of the brilliance, a woman clad in jeans and a blue t-shirt, her salt-and-cinnamon hair a shining glory about her smiling face.

_Connie?_

The bustle and noise of RMPs heading out for patrol vanished, leaving only Connie, him, and a warm surge of happiness.

_Is she here for me?_

His second reaction was to turn tail and run.

_Batters get only three strikes—I've had four swings and misses... I don't deserve a fifth... better leave now before it hurts... spare us both the pain...._

While he was choosing which direction to bolt, Connie covered the distance between them.

"Hi, John. You look awful."

"You don't."

His unplanned blurt brought a blush to her cheeks. He watched her smile and marveled how the simple motion brightened her green eyes.

_Maybe I should stay here and see what happens... stranger things than me hitting a home run have gone down... can't think of one right now, but it's possible...._

Connie's voice interrupted his worries.

"Judith said you two had been up all night, and you might want a ride home."

John nodded vehemently.

_I've never had a good deed come back at me so fast...._

Connie took his overnight case from his hand then reached for his garment bag, a load John gladly handed over to her. While she put his luggage in the trunk, he angled himself into the passenger seat.

_Does this car come with a derrick to help me out of here?_

Connie slid into her seat with practiced ease.

"Any errands you need to run on the way home?" she asked.

John leaned back against the headrest.

_Home... that word sounds so good when she says it...._

"Careful," he told her, "if you make me happy, I'll never leave."

Connie stared through the windshield as though hypnotized by the tailgate of the SUV parked in front of her.

"And," she said slowly, "the downside to that is...?"

John tried to think of one while she started the car.

_Can't think of any... nope, none at all....._

"Holding Our Breath" explains what was happening while Munch and Otten worked this case. "Prey and Predator follows that story in the series.


End file.
